


Who the Hell is Emrys?!

by Fallingtowardsoblivion



Series: Who the Hell is Emrys?! [1]
Category: Merlin (BBC), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Arthur writes poetry, BAMF Merlin, Bonding Spell, Bottom Merlin, Canon Era, Comedy, Drunkenness, Dungeons, Elves, Espionage, Fluff, Fluffy Angst, Funny, Gwaine and Merlin visit taverns, Gwaine goes streaking, Gwen and Lancelot come back from the honeymoon to a lovely surprise, Hilarity Ensues, Humor, Identity Reveal, M/M, Magic Reveal, Marking, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Merthur - Freeform, Misunderstanding, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Arthur, Soul Bond, Taverns appear quite a bit, This is not a crack!fic, arthur gets pissy, bandits, courting, emrys - Freeform, emrys reveal, epic adventure, george gets scarred, hunting emrys, its actually kinda decent, king arthur - Freeform, merlin fucks up, mild cross dressing, pouty merlin, prat Arthur, spell gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallingtowardsoblivion/pseuds/Fallingtowardsoblivion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin didn't expect the spell to go so absolutely, magnificently wrong. So of course it did. And now apparently every magical being in all of Albion could see the stamp of ownership - clear as day - on one Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot. And even worse, now there was a very pissy Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, searching far and wide for the sorcerer Emrys.</p><p>Now, wading his way through fake Emryses, woodland elves, Gwaine's alcoholic tendencies, the stocks, a damned chicken suit and Arthur's bed, Merlin must find a way to remove that bleeding mark before it's too late, and the prophecy is forever lost. </p><p>Or: the story where George's little heart goes out one too many times, and Gwaine loves the Camelot red a bit too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Quest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deanprays_onthursdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanprays_onthursdays/gifts).



> Hey, so this is unbeta'd, so there may be some errors (opps).
> 
> Also: I do not own the characters of the BBC TV show Merlin, nor do I own the mythological characters of Arthurian Legends. This is just a profitless, somewhat pathetic take on the whole Merlin universe, so please don't sue me I have no money.
> 
> (Also: here you go Benji, you giant asshole. Have a fanfiction for a rainy day.)

Arthur was fuming, dusting himself off and regaining as much dignity as a King who’d just been thrown on his ass could. This was the third time this week, this _week_ , that this has happened! And the worst part was that Arthur had no _clue_ who this Emrys fellow was… which was probably a good thing for Emrys - but a very bad thing for the knights Arthur was prone to ‘train’ with when angry - and the training dummies that Arthur was prone to hack to bits in the absence of said knights (usually due to Arthur-based injury).  

Arthur growled at the fact that he – of current – actually _did not_ _have_ either of mentioned objects to beat. Rather, he, and his knights, and Merlin, were in the middle of a godforsaken ‘haunted’ forest, after meeting with a godforsaken _Ogre_ , who just so happened to pardon them passage, because of some bugger sorcerer called Emrys (who had apparently put a property stamp on said fuming king).

Not to say that this was getting to Arthur… but this was getting to Arthur.

Angrily, Arthur stabbed his sword into the ground, yelling to nobody in particular, “ _Who_ _the bleeding hell is Emrys?!”_

The king of Camelot then promptly tugged off and threw his gauntlets across the clearing he and the knights were in.  Percival and Gwaine shared a glance, standing to the side as Arthur promptly had a man-tantrum.

Merlin, who had been staying at the edge of the clearing, looking a bit pale and impassive, crossed the muggy summer meadow to grab the King’s (rudely) discarded objects.

After about five more minutes of playing a very creative, very rage-fueled game of catch with his manservant (who was now loaded down with various metal objects meant to be worn, not thrown), Arthur finally grumbled out a gruff command to set up camp.

“There is no use going on, and since we have so _kindly_ been given passage into this land, we might as well not risk wandering off to somewhere less _hospitable_.”

Gwaine had raised his eyebrows as the dripping sarcasm, but wisely kept his mouth shut. Elyan sniggered at the way Arthur’s face was turning a bit red, and Percival was self-assigning himself to retrieve fire wood. Leon had ignored the outburst all together, and instead was setting about helping Merlin unpack the horses… with somewhat ulterior motives.

“Merlin,” Leon said, hefting off a particularly heavy bag containing what could only be described from the weight of it as _rocks_ , “have you happened to have heard of this Emrys?”

Merlin promptly managed to drop two bags, dislodge a saddle, and pulverize their last loaf of quality bread in one fell swoop, all with a very unmanly squeak. “Eh heh, what? Emrys? Who?” The manservant’s face contorted into a very interesting cross between a grimace and face of pain, while he suddenly was very jumpy.

“Emrys.” Leon said, looking quite unamused. “You were there as much as I was when the Ogre spoke of him.”

“Ahhh,” Merlin said, with a nervous laugh, “Yes, _that_ Emrys.”

Leon gave him an encouraging glazed look.

“Nope,” said Merlin, looking contemplative with an armful of what should’ve been provisions, though was now dirt-covered and probably un-ingestible, “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of him. Not me, anyway.” Then he got uncomfortably close to Leon, making the knight flinch back, and said in a low, serious tone, “Why would you ask…?”

“Umm, because you’re oft around Gaius?” Leon replied, trying to distance himself from the too-close manservant (it didn’t really work, though, because Merlin only seemed to lean closer as the somewhat concerned knight leaned back). “He knows much lore, and I would only suspect that even _you_ have managed to retain some of his knowledge.”

“Oh.” Merlin said, backing up from the second in command, then plastering a cheery grin onto his face. “Well, that’s quite considerate of you to think me so knowledgeable, but nope, no clue. Never heard of this Emrys, but he must be pretty impressive, yknow, since all these magical creatures look up to him and whatnot. Probably a pretty great guy-“ Leon sighed, rolling his eyes as Merlin went on a rant about impressive magic and whatnot. Of course he wouldn’t know anything that actually mattered.

***

You see, Arthur wasn’t really concerned the first time it happened. It seemed like a fluke, as though the particularly nasty sorceress they were facing was just mistaken.

He had gone in, sword ablaze, intent on destroying her as she held a particularly sour-looking Gwaine against the ceiling.

“In the name of Camelot, let the knight go!”

“Hah!” The sorceress had crowed, leering at him from the back of the cave from whence she’d entered, “He would be a pig of Camelot, what with his disrespect for such a sacred place as the Cave of Moreth!” Her eyes then flared a dangerous golden as she incanted, sending a very offended Gwaine (he was many things.. a pig, though?) crashing into that which is opposite the ceiling – i.e., the ground.

Arthur’s frown deepened as he raised his sword and spoke in his most commanding, kingly voice. “I command you at once, as the king of Camelot, to go back to where you came else my knights and I use deadly force!”

“Hah!” The sorceress gave a shrill laugh, her yellow curls tossing behind her head as she raised an arm – intent crystal clear. “Like your mortal blades can defeat me! I am a priestess of the Old Religion, and guardian of the Caverns of Moreth!” And with a shriek, the sorceress let loose a line of words in the Old Religion… Straight towards Arthur.

Only…

She frowned, her eyes flaring as she tried to incant at Arthur once more. Then the sorceress let out a little gasp, her eyes darting across the figure of Arthur.

Really, it made him feel a bit uncomfortable to be so thoroughly _looked at_ in such a manner.

Then she gasped again , louder, and dropped her arm (and a forgotten Gwaine, who had for some reason floated about halfway up the cave’s height and was desperately clinging to a stalactite in order to stay somewhat grounded). Taking a step back, the sorceress looked at Arthur with not humor and spite, but rather _horror_.

That was a much more respectable response, Arthur thought, putting on a bit of a sterner face in accordance.

“It would appear, my King,” _eh_? Arthur’s stern look quickly turned into one of befuddlement, “that I have overstepped my bounds.” The sorceress reluctantly kneeled down on her perch at the back of the cave. “I only hope that Emrys can receive my most sincere of apologies for attempting to harm what is rightfully his.” _Eh_?? “If you may let me leave with my life..?” The sorceress looked up across the cave, addressing not only Arthur but his somewhat forgotten band of knights (besides for Gwaine. Gwaine was a bit out of action at the moment).

_Ehhh???_

Arthur was so befuddled that he just kinda stood there, his mouth slightly agape, until Merlin (of all people) stepped forward into the path of the dangerous sorceress and – with all the nobleness in the world – bid her to take her leave.

Everyone else was a bit too shocked to really register as the woman (with a graceful flutter of her dress) left the cavern.

***

When the merry (and by ‘merry’, we mean absolutely unpleasant and disagreeable) band of Camelot’s finest finally arrived back at Camelot, Arthur took it upon himself to call a private council of Gaius and Geoffrey in his chambers, over a matter of great importance: Emrys.

Merlin frowned a bit as Arthur made a vague motion in his direction as he walked away from the courtyard, horse left forgotten next to one still-mounted manservant. The warlock supposed that his floppy hand motion meant something along the lines of ‘take the horses back to the stables, unpack and take care of my supplies, and then come to my chambers once you’re done’.  Though of course, it could also mean ‘off with ye’, which Merlin personally preferred more… But Merlin knew Arthur, and also knew that there had been an abundant potato harvest, and knew that potatoes had a tendency to gravitate towards his head whenever he was in the stocks…

So to the stables it was.

***

“I’m sorry, Sire, but I do not understand your question.”

Geoffrey and Gaius stood in front of the table at which Arthur was seated, the latter having just spoken, his Eyebrows of Doom raised quizzically.

“It is quite simple, Gaius. Who. Is. Emrys?” Arthur ground out. He was in a particularly sour mood, and furthermore, Merlin was taking his sweet old time with the horses. Idiot.

“If I may, Sire,” Geoffrey began, “I believe that, if given time, I could probably find reference within the tomes of the library to this man… if he is of legend.”

Arthur frowned. “I don’t know if he is of legend… All I know is that he is a bloody pain in the arse!” His face darkened into what he would like to consider a kingly scowl, but really looked closer to a childish frown.

Gaius coughed conspicuously into his hand... Looking for all in the world as though he were hiding a laugh.

“Gaius? Anything you wish to add to the conversation?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. Yes, he was achieving a _very_ kingly scowl.

“No, no sire. I was just thinking… I might’ve heard of the name before.” Arthur raised his other eyebrow.

“….and?” He was using a voice that was usually saved specifically for when Merlin was acting particularly dense.

“And I would have to consult my sources to make certain.”

Arthur frowned, but then nodded. “Alright, then. You are dismissed… but come back as soon as information is discovered. This _Emrys_ must be dealt with as soon as possible.”

***

That night, when Merlin was finally released from the particularly sadistic grasps of one King Arthur, covered in manure and bits of vegetables (and, yes, potatoes) he trudged into Gaius’ chambers to find a very Doom-ful set of Eyebrows greeting him.

A grin that looked more like a grimace spread across the young warlock’s face.

“…Surprise?”

“Merlin…” Gaius said warningly. “What have you done? How many times have I had to tell you…”

“Yes, yes Gaius, I know, I know. It was an honest mistake, really.”

Gaius relented his intensely burning gaze, taking in Merlin’s full state. “I was going to punish you, but I believe Arthur has inadvertently done so already.”

Merlin groaned. “Don’t even ask.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Merlin glared as Gaius, moving over to the wash-bin in the corner, fully intent on scrubbing some of the filth from his persons.

“So what have you – Emrys – done to anger Arthur so?”

“I… it was a protection spell gone wrong…” Merlin grimaced as a chunk of manure crumbled off his face. “Well, it didn’t really go _wrong_ , per say, it actually worked _quite_ well, it just… had _side_ _effects_ that I wasn’t expecting…”

Raised Eyebrow.

Merlin continued at the sight of the obvious threat. “It appears as though I have – ah – _marked_ Arthur. Or, well, Emrys has… And creatures of magic can, well, _see_ it.” Merlin grimaced again, trying to identify the green chunk of something that had been lodged in his hair. Realizing the quest would be in vain, he instead moved to pick more miscellaneous items from his black locks.

“Oh, Merlin. What have you done?” Gaius bemoaned. “You do realize that I have to divulge some of who Emrys is to Arthur, don’t you?”

Merlin kinda half-froze, a clump of shit in his hand. Evidently he did not favor the idea. “Umm… Yeah. How about you leave out the bit about the Once and Future King, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“And the bit about destiny.”

“Obviously so.”

“Oh and the part about being a warlock.”

“I agree.”

“And the whole being powerful bit…”

“Ye-es…”

“And the whole Druid thing!”

“ _Merlin_.” Gaius huffed, exasperated. “Geoffrey has been requested to also search into the history of Emrys. I cannot leave out all of the information surrounding him - _you_ , else it appears suspicious!”

Merlin sighed, running fingers through his now somewhat clean hair. “Fine, Gaius. I trust you to tell Arthur _only_ that which is necessary.”

Gaius nodded, turning to bed for the night.

“Oh, but do leave out the Once and Future bit, yeah?”

Gaius rolled his eyes. _Warlocks_.

***

The quest on which Arthur and his most trusted knights were on was one of great peril and required much fortitude. Their goal: to retrieve the chalice of Elkerban. It was said to hold mystical powers over the living and dead alike, and rumor had it that Morgana was searching for it.

They had, indeed, found it – after the incident with the Ogre, but before the visit from the woodland Elves. (Arthur was still fuming, for those _creatures_ had had the audacity to ask knights of _Camelot_ to their midsummer festivities! And furthermore, Gwaine had agreed -! For _apparently_ , “a friend of Emrys will always be a friend of the Elves”, and Gwaine had been “waiting his whole life for a chance to get drunk with ethereal beings”, whatever the hell _that_ meant! Why that _ungrateful_ drunkard of a knight-)

– Arthur scowled. Calm breaths. Calm breaths.

Anyway. Needless to say, Gwaine did _not_ accompany any ageless magical beings to fantastical forest parties to get fabulously drunk. No, he got drunk enough with merely the mead in his waterskin. (Yes Arthur knew about that! What type of imbecile did he take his King for?)

So the Knights of the Round Table had retrieved the chalice, which Merlin proclaimed - and indeed it ended up to ring true – that it was a worthless hunk of metal. Evidently, the magic had drained from its being.

But still, Arthur quite fancied it to be a quality parchment weight...

The success of finding the famed chalice was dampened, though, by the second magical encounter. It had been a pack of Druids, traveling to gods know where. It had been eerily similar to their previous encounter with the sorceress, save this time the leader of the sorcerers had bowed to Arthur, saying something about destiny and a future king - though Arthur felt as though it was his duty to correct the Druid, for _surprisingly_ _enough_ , the crowning ceremony had actually been over a _year_ past! He wasn’t a future king, but rather a _current_ one. News really must travel slowly around those parts… But Arthur never did get to reeducate his technical subjects, for Merlin had cut him off with a frantic wave of the hand and some estranged noises that were surprisingly attractive. (Maybe it was because Arthur had been feeling particularly sexually repressed lately. There was no way in Heaven, Hell or the Veil in between that Arthur, in his right mind, would find _Mer_ lin attractive!)

Nevertheless, it had all been fine and dandy (after all, the Druids and Arthur had a bit of a peace agreement) up until that damned Emrys was brought up.

It really was a surprise that Arthur didn’t blow a gasket, according to Gwaine.

Arthur frowned, thinking that comment over. Gwaine would pay for that one.

Just then, Arthur was drawn from is reveries (which was probably for the better, given that he was planning a _new_ , _special_ training regime for his knights… specifically his gruff, tavern-type knights…) by a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

It was Gaius. “Ah,” Arthur said, standing from where he had been sitting, twirling a knife. “Am I to assume that you have discovered something of interest?”

The old physician’s eyes flashed with something unidentifiable as he answered, “Yes, sire. As a matter of fact, I believe you will find this to be a very interesting turn of events.”

Arthur gave a curt, kingly nod. “Very well. Have a seat.” And just like that, Arthur was sitting again, Gaius across from him.

The physician took a deep breath, and then began.

“Now the sorcerer Emrys is actually quite a formidable man…”

***


	2. Espionage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah this is still unbeta'd, so it still may have errors :p

Arthur really did have to congratulate himself on the sheer ingenuity that was incorporated into his brilliant plan. If he wasn't so kingly, he would actually consider giving himself a pat on the back. But he didn't, because that's what servants are for. Or, well, are _supposed_ to be for, Arthur thought, with an accusatory glare at one 'manservant to the king' (who was currently getting up off the ground, rubbing his elbow).  
  
Really was it that hard to follow orders?  
  
Arthur frowned. All he had asked was for Merlin to pat him on the back. It really was quite amazing how quickly a pat on the back turned into a mass of servant and master wrestling out their sexual frustrations on the floor. It ended with Arthur (obviously) on top, demonstrating all his kingly prestige with a well placed foot.  
  
Arthur shook his head. He needed to get laid.  
  
Anyway. The plan.  
  
Yes, a brilliant plan. After hearing Gaius speak of the sorcerer Emrys (apparently the physician had heard-tale of him from a friend, who knew a friend, who knew a half Druid twice removed whose sister was married to a Druid) and how he was destined to help Camelot _(whole lot of good he's been doing_ , Arthur had thought with a snort. _Why couldn't he have been there when there was a dragon_?) and was dedicated to the crown, Arthur began to formulate a plan. A large, complicated, well developed plan. Quite liken to that last sentence.

Believe it or not, Merlin was not the only person to have a super-human sixth sense. Arthur quite liked to entertain the idea that _he_ , too, had a special knack.

And Arthur did, indeed, have a knack… specifically, for identifying fishy situations. And after Gaius had finished his telling of the tale of Emrys, his knack had informed him that this situation did sound a tad fishy. After all, it is a tad bit suspicious to be told that a sorcerer felt the need to protect the King and Kingdom that lead the crusade against magic. No, it just didn't add up. Rather, Arthur suspected that this Emrys had a much more _nefarious_ intention... If only he could figure it out.  
  
But whatever his motive was, Arthur was ready to vanquish it (and him - the _coward_ ) with swift and lethal force. But first, Arthur needed a plan. And after approximately fifteen hours of contemplation, training, contemplation, sleep and contemplation, Arthur was thoroughly proud of what he'd come up with.  
  
"You see, Merlin," Arthur had said to his manservant the morning after his conversation with Gaius, "the key to catching Emrys is by catching him _off_ _guard_."  
  
Merlin had looked up from where he'd been taking discarded objects and placing them in a pile, then promptly shoving said pile into various large containers - such as Arthur's grandfather's trunk, the Earl of Berksire's gift-urn from two summers past, and the rubbish bin - and gave Arthur a wary look. "Yeah? And how, _sire_ , do you expect to do that?"  
  
Arthur smirked, ready to unveil his glorious device. "How nice of you to ask, _Mer_ lin. You see this Emrys fellow is a sorcerer." Pause for effect.  
  
"...yeah?"  
  
"And he's supposed to be protecting Camelot and me, her King." Arthur thrust a thumb towards himself to emphasis his point. He could never be too clear with particularly dense people, such as his manservant.  
  
"Yeah...?" Merlin said, still wary.  
  
"Well what do you deduce from that, _Mer_ lin?"  
  
"Deduce? Sire? Are you feeling alright?” Merlin chuckled nervously, looking up at Arthur from where he was positioned, his foot shoving a particularly disagreeable stack of (dirty) royal clothing into a too-small vase, “ You know we never did check your head after you fell off your horse with the whole ogre-incident. I might say that the fact that you're actually trying to _deduce_ things, though, is a clear sign that you're not exactly in the right-"  
  
"MERLIN." Arthur cut in, angry at the unexpected deviation from his great unveil.  
  
"Yes, sire?" Merlin said, innocently, moving on to the next pile of royal belongings, acting oblivious to the fact that he was walking a _very_ fine line.  
  
"Do shut up."  
  
"Yes, sire."  
  
Arthur nodded, a bit annoyed now. "Now where was I? Ah yes, deducing." He shot a very toxic glare towards his manservant at that. "Now what anyone without a mental affliction can _easily_ _deduce_ from this situation is that Emrys must be in Camelot." He crossed his arms, quite proud of himself.  
  
"Yes...?"  
  
Arthur immediately frowned, his bubble popping as he caught the look of ineptitude on his manservant's face. _Merlin_ , of all people, should be pleased that the man running the whole of Camelot actually had a brain. Imagine if somebody like Gwaine was running things! Well that would just be _disastrous_ , there would be a mead shortage, and don’t even get _started_ on the _wine_ _cellar_ -  
  
"And...?" Merlin said, interrupting Arthur's brief vision of ale-soaked terror.  
  
"And, my dear _Mer_ lin," Arthur said, quickly regaining his regal manner. "I plan to catch him." Arthur nodded, for good measure.  
  
Merlin gave the king a very unconvinced look. "Is that as far as your dense little brain managed to get?"  
  
"Merlin..." Arthur growling warningly.  
  
"Oh my apologies... Is that as far as your dense little brain managed to get, _sire_." Merlin flashed an award-winning grin at a very unamused King.  
  
Arthur gritted his teeth. Deep breaths. _Deep_. _Breaths_. "I must tell you _Mer_ lin, that I _have_ _indeed_ managed to get further than such a _simple_ deduction, and now have a very good, very fool-proof plan... Though it is probably too complex for your _simplistic_ _little_ _mind_ to comprehend."  
  
Merlin raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms, and dryly said, "Try me."  
  
Arthur's eyes sparkled, quickly losing his sarcastic edge. "My plan is..." Pause for effect. " _Espionage_!"  
  
"Eh?" Merlin said, his face scrunched with confusion.  
  
"I said, _idiot_ : espionage." Arthur repeated, schooling his face into his favorite holier-than-thou look.  
  
"Yeah, and what the hell is that?"  
  
"How nice of you to ask, _Merlin_. It is _quite_ a difficult concept for a _lowly_ manservant such as yourself to understand," Arthur said, comfortably slipping into his Merlin-you-idiot-let-me-lecture-you mode. "So I shall save you the big words and get to the point-"  
  
"Finally!"  
  
Arthur pointedly ignored the rude interruption, and continued, "I will entrust this mission to only my finest Knights... I believe Sir Leon and Sir Percival will do. They will seamlessly incorporate themselves into the common populous, making connections at the local taverns, using their military prestige and people skills to gain much needed information on this sorcerer.

“This Emrys appears to have many a followers, and therefore through subtle technique and tact, my Knights will search out and apprehend them... Which will lead us directly to their cowardly leader!" Arthur smiled a bit, quite pleased with himself. "Now, now, I know this is quite a bit of information to take in, _Mer_ lin, so I'll let it soak into that silly little brain of yours while you go fetch Sir Le-"  
  
"Don't you think someone like Gwaine would work better?" Merlin cut in thoughtfully.  
  
"Eh?" Arthur asked, thrown off by the unexpected interruption. He promptly regained himself, though, his face squeezing into a particularly sour-lemon look, as he realized what Merlin had just said.  
  
"I said, don't you think someone like Gwaine would wo-"  
  
"I know what you said!" Arthur cut in. If anyone was to be cutting people off mid sentence, it certainly should be someone important, like Arthur. "Why in the hell would I have _Gwaine_ lead my espionage mission?" He said, incredulously.  
  
"Because Gwaine can actually incorporate himself into the "common populous"?" Merlin said in a tone that sounded very much as though he were talking to the offspring of a particularly dense village idiot.  
  
Arthur had a horrible series of what he could only take a premonitions (some quite vividly involving Gwaine getting absolutely _shitfaced_ with woodland elves) at the mere thought of Gwaine being in charge of something so essential to the crown. " _Merlin_ , that sounds like an absolutely _wretched_ idea. Now go fetch Sir Leon and Sir Percival."  
  
"But-"  
  
"No buts!"  
  
"You didn’t even hear me out, though!"  
  
"I don't need to hear you out," Arthur said, a self-satisfied grin stretching across his face. "Because I am the _king_ , and you shall do as I bid."  
  
Merlin muttered something as he skulked out the door that sounded suspiciously like 'I didn't vote for this prat, who put him in charge? I prefer the idea of a democratic oligarchy, myself. Much more reasonable’. But Arthur didn't really catch it, and Merlin could've just let out a long-winded cough (he tended to do that, more often than not). So the King let it slide.

For now.  
  
***  
Arthur sulkily watched as Gwaine left, Merlin in tow, with a large bag of coins (for the _espionage_ , he had said, flipping his hair and winking at a somewhat uncertain manservant) and all intent and purpose to go to the tavern. Arthur liked to think it was his quick thinking that had him changing his espionagees at the last minute from the very-unable-to-make-small-talk Percival and never-set-foot-in-a-proper-tavern Leon to the very worldly and very obnoxious Gwaine. And Merlin. Lord knew Merlin spent enough time in such places as it was, but it was either him or Elyan, and Elyan was out on patrol, and Arthur need this to happen _now_ … Preferably before any more magical creatures managed to bump into the king and his _bloody blinking sign_ proclaiming his (unwanted, hated, and soon to be dead) ‘owner’. Or whatever the hell it said.

Arthur had half a mind to just find a magic user to tell him what in the _bloody_ _hell_ was actually _written_ on his persons.

Sometimes Arthur really did feel violated.

With such unsettling thoughts floating around in his mind, Arthur decided it best if he lay a few more training dummies to rest in the mean time.

He had a feeling that neither knight nor servant would be resurfacing in the upper levels of Camelot anytime soon.

***

It was in the third tavern and on Gwaine’s sixth round of ‘Mead for Everyone, God Bleeding Dammit!’ that the name Emrys was muttered.

Merlin had only heard it because he had managed to stay halfway sober; the warlock had found out a long time ago, in the company of Will, that a drunk Merlin was a Magical Merlin. That was _never_ a good thing, and only discovered _after_ the fact. The whole escapade involving the two boys had ended in three barrels of water turning into mead, a very floral patch sprouting on the roof of Old Man Jody’s hut in the middle of a snowstorm, and the world’s worst hangover.

Gwaine had heard it, as well – though this was because he was ten-some glasses in and still sober, and because he had been listening for it.

Now the man who had mentioned Emrys was a particularly magical-looking, particularly smashed man in the back corner. He and his companion (another magical-looking, only _moderately_ smashed man) were nursing meads (courtesy of Gwaine), wearing dark cloaks and engaging in a loud and highly traitorous conversation about one Emrys: Savior of the Druids.

Merlin didn’t particularly like being called a savior, nor the way Druids tended to believe him to be such, but he was not yet drunk enough to actually voice that opinion. Instead, he leaned a bit closer to the loud pair, as did Gwaine, and listened.

“-can’t believe he would so blatantly _mark_ the _King_!”

“Nor can I, either!” The only moderately smashed man said, laughing. “I wonder if Damica has seen his majesty yet! Oh her reaction will be _priceless_!”

The particularly smashed man laughed at this, a bit too loud for the only moderately humorous statement, raising his glass to take another generous gulp of mead.

Meanwhile, Merlin was somewhat pale, what with watching two men practically _ask_ to become firewood, and Gwaine’s eyebrows were slowly edging up his forehead, a smug smirk spreading across his face. As the men broke in their parley – glasses running close to dry – the Knight of Camelot valiantly chose this time to nod a silent farewell to the now-green manservant, and head off to butt into the conversation, fresh glasses of mead in hand.

***

“Don’t worry, Gwaine,” Merlin said, his speech somewhat slurred, “Better luck next time… or.. something…”

He frowned at this, confused at the thought that he had thought he’d thought but now was definitely not being thought. Gwaine made a strange gurgle of agreement somewhere close to him. Actually quite close to him, if the whack of luscious hair in Merlin’s face was anything to go by.

Actually, Merlin realized, Gwaine and he were leaning on each other. Oh yeah, to- to get back..?

“Ey Gwaine?” Merlin muttered as he sloshed down another darkened street of some part of Camelot.

“Hmph? Huh?” It really did sound as though Gwaine was waking up. Had he been snoring?

“Ey, ey, ey… uh… Gwaine?” Merlin said, forgetting then remembering a particularly slippery train of thought.

“I said,” burp, “what?” said (or something like that) a bothered Gwaine as he straightened up, dislodging a rather smashed Merlin.

Said Merlin took quite a tumble, but quickly regained himself with as much dignity as a man who was absolutely smashed could.

So without any.

He actually looked quite silly.

Gwaine said as much, earning himself a trip on air that sent him face-first into a convenient puddle of mud.

Merlin laughed quite loudly, then remembered it was night time, and promptly scowled at a very wet Gwaine and shushed him. “Really Gwaine,” Merlin said, a stern look of concern on his face as he wavered in an invisible wind. “You really - Gwaine - should,” hiccup, “should be quieter.”

Gwaine attempted to get up but was immediately greeted with a shushing finger to what should’ve been his lips, but rather smashed the side of his nose.

“ _Shhhhh_!” Merlin said, nodding to himself.

Gwaine nodded back, grinning for no particular reason.

Eventually the two made it to the castle, and some time later Arthur was awoke with a very rude, _very_ loud series of smashes, ripping noises, crashes and a slurred line of sailor-esque profanity.

Assuming the worst (another damn dragon) or something along those lines, the King of Camelot promptly jumped out of bed, grabbed his sword, and wearing nothing save his favorite sleeping pants, rushed out into the hallway to vanquish any criminals who dared to cross his path.

Instead of some heinous fiend, though, Arthur came across a couple of ripped tapestries, a broken vase, a dislodged statue and a very conspicuous (and intoxicated) Gwaine and Merlin, crouching behind a potted plant that was far too small to hid even one of them.

Arthur lowered his sword, huffing out and rolling his eyes.

“Shhhhhhh!” Merlin said, shoving over Gwaine, who was woefully dislodged from their all too tiny hiding place with a yelp and fury of flailing limbs, “Don’t be so loud! He will hear us!”

Gwaine seemed to be looking at something that was not visible to everyone else as he tried once again to right himself. “Merrrrrlin…” He hissed, his head bobbing as he tried to follow the many Merlins that were in his line of sight. “ _Merlin_ you can’t _move_ like that! Princess can detect movement…”

Merlin frowned, realizing that he actually did not feel as stationary as he had originally assumed himself to be.

“I can’t stop moving, Gwaine, because it’s not,” hiccup, “it’s not _me_  that’s moving!” Merlin shook his head, a very concerned look crossing his face. “It’s the _ground_.” The manservant then nodded his head while glaring at where the ground should’ve been. “Anyway… Arthur doesn’t detect movement…”

“He doesn’t?” This was news to Gwaine, who was now giving the potted plant his undivided attention.

“Nope.” Merlin popped, “He _smells_ _fear_.”

Gwaine was actually quite concerned by this enlightenment, and promptly moved to smell himself. Relieved that he really didn’t smell like anything besides for potted plant, the knight relaxed, saying, “Well he won’t smell _me_.”

Merlin frowned, eyes narrowing. “ _What_ are you implying?”

“I’m not _implying_ anything…numbskull...” Gwaine then promptly forgot what direction was up and gracelessly sloshed backwards, spread eagle, onto the ground.

Merlin was soon to follow, giggling a bit.

Shortly thereafter, the only sound that could be heard from behind the plant was very loud snoring.

Arthur, in the meantime, was staring incredulously at the plant.

Finally, the king awoke from his own semi-daze, muttering a disbelieving, “ _Why_ do I even _try_.” And then turned around to head back to his chambers. He would deal with those two imbeciles in the morning... when there was a good crowd around for the stocks.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I had wayyyyy too much fun writing this. Way too much fun. But do you know what's even more fun than writing drunk Gwaine and Merlin? You guessed it! Writing the MORNING AFTER.


	3. Note to Gwaine: Don't get Shitfaced with the Woodland Elves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna thank you all for all the support! Enjoy this next chapter!

Merlin awoke to the distinct sensation of being laid on after a somewhat improbable dream involving a slow, crushing death at the hands of a large potted plant. When, upon rejoining the conscious world, Merlin was greeted by a snort, kick, and slap of well-kept hair, he decided that the dream was a much better scenario, considering that it was well known among the Knights and royal staff that _you leave Gwaine to sleep where he's fallen_... Or otherwise face certain disaster. And right now, woefully enough for Merlin, he just so happened to be _the place where Gwaine had fallen_. This left a very flustered, _very_ _trapped_ , slowly suffocating manservant.

 

As it turned out, though, the warlock's worries didn't last for that long. You see, Merlin was still somewhat intoxicated and therefore promptly managed to forget that he needed to disentangle himself from one Sir Gwaine of Camelot, and instead fell back into a fitful sleep involving deadly flora. He was only awoken a time later when an unnaturally large amount of frigid water was dumped (mainly on Gwaine) from an unknown source.

 

"UP AND AT EM!" Well, not _that_ unknown... "WAKEY WAKEY, NOW!"

 

Arthur really did have a way with words, Merlin managed to think through his absolutely _splitting_ headache.

 

A very offended, very wet-cat-ish Gwaine was sputtering at the other side of the cell, having jumped to his feet and off his comfortable (if not a bit boney) bed at the first threat of danger.

 

"So _glad_ to see you've both enjoyed your _nap_ , and I'm _so_ sorry to see it end," Arthur was saying, though Merlin was desperately trying to block out his too-loud talking, "but since Camelot was _picking up the tab_ , you'd both better have a _damn good set of evidence_."

 

His majesty was always one to get to the point.

 

Merlin at first thought about replying with a smart comeback, or at least decent comeback, or maybe just a yes or no (he might as well take it easy after such a hard night filled with espionage, after all) but as his skull seemed to be wanting to desperately separate into 12+ pieces at the mere thought of talking, the manservant ended up staying silent.

 

Gwaine, thankfully, was fully functioning ( _did that man never get hangovers?!)_ and quickly took up the task of soothsaying their somewhat red-in-the-face King.

 

"Oh get off it, Princess. You're just pissy that you missed out on all the fun."

 

Okay, maybe Gwaine was a bit hung-over, too.

 

Arthur's face became a very diplomatic calm, save for one blond eyebrow, which slowly moved up his forehead. "Is that so?" He said in a very friendly, _very_ deadly voice.

 

Gwaine, having no instinct for self-preservation, responded, "Pfff, of course you are! It's not every day that you get picked up by a couple of woodland elves! You wouldn't _believe_ the types of parties those buggers host! Why I ought to tell you,” Gwaine said, as though he were divulging a particularly juicy secret, “you missed the sight of Merlin dancing with a _Minotaur_!"

 

Even though he was hung-over, Merlin still managed to appreciate just how quickly Arthur's face turned from somewhat _pink_ to a deep (Camelot) _red_.

 

***

 

"Did I really dance with a Minotaur?" Merlin said in between bouts of tomato (and potato, Gods _dammit_ ) slugging.

 

Gwaine, who was in the stock next to the manservant and looking a bit ruffled but still fabulous, grinned. "Yeah you did! It was right after I lost a bet with a sensual ogress but before you decided to join the elven drinking contest. You really shouldn't participate in those, though, mate, because you're absolute _rubbish_ at them. Or at least you could try to not vomit all over the Elven King's throne, when you do."

 

Merlin cringed, not certain what part of the conversation to be personally offended by first. His grimace was quickly wiped off his face, though, as a very well-aimed carrot ( _what the fu-?!)_ bounced off of Gwaine and ricocheted into the warlock’s eye.

 

"Ow! Gods dammit! _Ey_! Percival! I see you over there, you big ol' bugger..." Gwaine was yelling and looking quite improper as he squirmed around, bum in the air, trying to glare at the other knight. Merlin started laughing at the spectacle beside him, only to receive a mouthful of cabbage.

 

It wasn't even mid-morning, and there had been an unexpectedly large harvest this year.

 

It was going to be a long day.

 

***

Arthur, at the suggestion of Gaius, had taken up squeezing a firm, hand-sized sack of sand whenever he felt thoroughly agitated.

 

Looking at the pile of demolished sand in front of him, the king decided that it wasn't a very _good_ suggestion on the physician's part, and that he really _did_ need to commission for more training dummies to be constructed.

 

Arthur sighed, rubbing his eyes in a manner that suggested he wished to take a sword and honorably put himself out of his misery. This whole matter with this Emrys fellow had taken up a new level of urgency. Gwaine and Merlin had _obviously_ gotten absolutely _nowhere_.

 

He had just known this was going to happen. It was all Merlin’s fault for being so damn adamant about the King changing his espionagees. _I never can trust that manservant when it comes to taverns._ Arthur thought somberly, considering getting the young man counseling for his drinking habits.

 

Really, the only thing Arthur could do now was dispatch Sir Leon and Sir Percival as soon as possible if there was any hope of salvaging this Espionage Mission. A whole night had been wasted as it was (in all meanings of the word) and for all Arthur knew, Emrys could be setting some new, devious plan into motion.

 

Murmuring angrily to himself and glaring at various stationary house-hold items, the King managed to hunt down his substitute servant and tell him to fetch his two prized knights.

 

***

“So when are you going to tell him?”

 

Merlin and Gwaine were in Gaius’ chambers, attempting to clean themselves of vegetable-based refuse and, on Gwaine’s part, trying to reduce the swelling of a particularly nasty looking, Percival-throwing-carrots-based black eye.

 

“Pardon?” Merlin said as he rubbed at a particularly stubborn chunk of gods know what on his left cheek.

 

“I said, so when are you going to tell him?” Gwaine said, grinning and adding a hair flip for good measure.

 

“Tell who what?” Merlin said, not at all liking the knowing look that was crossing the dubious knight’s face.

 

“Tell Arthur that you’re Emrys, of course!”

 

Merlin managed to trip on air, drop his cloth, spill their shared bucket of water and break a vase, all in one fell swoop. “I-I’m sorry WHAT?” He sputtered from his new position on the floor.

 

Gwaine rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Really, Merlin, I know it’s embarrassing to have to reveal to your crush that you marked him, but this manhunt has to stop.”

 

Merlin sputtered, his face turning an odd shade of red. “I-I uh NO? That prat is not my- I did _not_ -“

 

Gwaine pursed his lips, unconvinced.

 

“I-“ Merlin finally deflated. “Err, it wasn’t on purpose?”

 

He flushed a deeper shade of pink as Gwaine began to laugh loudly. “Not on purpose? Hah, Merlin, what type of rubbish sorcerer _are_ you that you _accidentally_ mark the _King_ of _Camelot_? Oh gods, this is precious!”

 

“I- y’know what, shut up.” Merlin said, indignation beginning to rise in his chest. _Let’s see Gwaine try to do better!_

“Oh man, Merlin, you can’t really _not_ think this is funny!” Gwaine was bent over, holding his sides.

 

“Just shut up, already, before I turn you into a damn newt!”

 

Gwaine smothered another round of laughter and straightened up, looking a bit fascinated. “Could you actually do that?”

 

Merlin suddenly realized what exactly he was saying and who exactly he was saying it to and where exactly he was saying it, and clamped his mouth shut.

 

“Oh come off it, Merlin.” Gwaine said as he saw the warlock regaining his composure. “You _do_ realize there was a reason I left the nobility and such.”

 

Merlin relaxed a bit at this. “I thought it was because you slept with the Countess of Eskabel?”

 

“What? Pff no.”

 

“No,” Merlin said, squinting thoughtfully. “I’m _pretty_ _sure_ it had something to do with a scandal at the house of Eskabel.”

 

Gwaine sighed. “If you _must_ _know_ , it was the daughter.”

 

“Mmmm, no, you don’t get de-noble-ized over only a silly fling.”

 

“Okay maybe it was also the son.”

 

“Eeeeeeehhhhh….”

 

“Alright, alright! I slept with the Count… and nursemaid… and stableman as well, if you must know!” Gwaine yelled, exasperated. “You’re getting off topic on purpose!” He said, accusingly.

 

Merlin shrugged. “Your point?”

 

“My point, Merlin, is that Arthur is going _apeshit_ , and you can stop him.” Gwaine said, becoming serious.

 

Merlin gulped at the thought of being the subject of Arthur’s ‘apeshit’. “Look, Gwaine, I know. I know, alright? Do you really think that it’s in my best interest, though, to just _walk_ _up_ to _Arthur_ and say “Oh hullo there, yes I’m actually Emrys, and I’m really sorry about that mark you’ve got there, here let me magic you some flowers and sparkles to make it better.” Why, if I did that, I would be tinder in less than an hour!”

 

Gwaine, for once, had to agree with the somewhat terrified manservant.

 

“Alright, well… We will come up with _something_.” Gwaine said, putting a comforting hand on the sorcerer’s shoulder with a loud, resounding _thunk_.

 

“Waaait… No.” Merlin said, trying to not fall over from the gruff Knight’s _painful_ attempt at comfort. “No, there is no ‘ _we’_. _I_ have got this under control.” He knew far too well what happened when Gwaine ‘came up with _something’_ … His ‘ _somethings’_ usually involved illegally-obtained baked goods, exotic animals, mead, Merlin in a soggy chicken-suit, three pounds of flour and Terry (the royal tailor). And they never went as planned. Merlin knew as much from experience.

 

“Oh come on. I am helping you.”

 

“ _No_ , Gwaine, you aren’t.”

 

“C’mon, Merlin, I’d be a rubbish friend to the both of you if I didn’t help.”

 

“No Gwaine, I’m serious. I’ve faired perfectly fine for the last _twenty_ _years_ of my life without your help. I can deal with my magic as I always have!”

 

“Oi but I just finished mending the chicken-suit!”

 

“GWAINE. No I am _not_ wearing that! The last _two_ times I _did_ , I ended up catching on fire- And _don’t even start that whole bit about ‘spontaneous human combustion’_ , because we both know _that’s_ _a_ _crock_ _of_ _horseshit_!”

 

“But-“

 

“ _NO_!”

 

***

 

Gwaine and Merlin were set to meet and talk about a way out of Merlin’s current ‘predicament’ at The Rising Sun, after the last of the warlock’s manservant duties were finished.

 

Merlin wasn’t really sure he _wanted_ to have Gwaine’s help getting out of said predicament, but the Knight of the Round Table had assured the warlock that there would be no chicken-suits, no exotic animals, and no Terry (the tailor). Therefore, Merlin was willing to humor the ruffian, if only in order to figure out how he’d figured out the true identity of Emrys.

 

Worst case scenario, they both get absolutely smashed. Again.

 

Or at least, that was what Merlin kept telling himself as he helped Arthur undress for bed.

 

“You know, Merlin, it’s quite strange.”

 

“What, sire?” Merlin said automatically, working a very royal shirt off of a very well sculpted, very royal chest.

 

“You.”

 

Merlin, who had been halfway to the dresser with an armful of royal wardrobe, abruptly fell under the spell of an extensive coughing fit, dropped said armful of royal wardrobe, overturned a chair and attempted (and failed) to save himself from falling by catching a pile of parchments upon the (royal) table.

 

Arthur raised an eyebrow as he looked upon his absolutely incompetent manservant, who was giving him a guilty grin from the ground, parchment gently falling around him.

 

_Really, what could have gotten into Merlin to make him so jumpy? It’s almost as though this whole Emrys thing is effecting-_

_oh._

 

_ohhhhhh._

 

Arthur’s face relaxed into realization, while Merlin was fluttering about the room catching stray bits of legislature and poetry. ( _Yes,_ poetry _. Arthur was a well-rounded, multifaceted man! There is absolutely nothing wrong about writing about the more appreciative bits of flowers and Camelot and hacking training dummies to bits and Merli- not important_.)

 

“Oh, Merlin.” Arthur said gravely.

 

Merlin turned around, giving Arthur a nervous grin that really looked more like a face somebody who’d just drunken one of Gaius’ particularly strong tonics made. “Yes, sire?”

 

“You know, I can’t believe I’ve been so blind.”

 

Scratch that last thought… _That_ was the face somebody who’d just drunken one of Gaius’ particularly strong tonics made. “B-blind, sire?”

 

“Oh yes, _Merlin_.” Arthur said, advancing predatorily towards a very skittish-looking manservant. “ _Very_ blind.”

 

Merlin visibly gulped, backing up in an attempt to escape. Obviously a very vain, not-thought-through attempt.

 

“You have been acting off since this whole Emrys thing began.”

 

Merlin looked quite green now, which meant Arthur was obviously correct. “Off, sire? Me? Nahh. I don’t think I’ve been acting off, _per say_. You know I really don’t think it has had anything to do with Emrys, or anything like that, sire. You see I’ve actually – um – felt quite _sick_ , lately-“

 

“Merlin.” Arthur said, his voice flat.

 

“Yes, sire?” Merlin said, innocently, unable to move backwards anymore as he was now pressed flush against the dresser.

 

“ _Do_ shut up.”

 

“Yes, sire.”

 

Arthur took in a deep breath. He needed to have a clear head if he was going to address the new elephant in the room.

 

Merlin, in the meanwhile, looked very much as though he wanted to claw his way into the dresser and then out through the thick, stone wall that was behind it.

 

“Merlin, I know your secret.”

 

Merlin actually contemplated clawing his way into the dresser and then out through the thick, stone wall behind it. “M-my what?”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes, very much moving into the manservant’s personal space. “Your secret. I understand completely, though.”

 

“Eh?”

 

“Yes. _I_ would be scared for _my_ king if _I_ knew there was a vicious, unseen sorcerer stalking him, too.”

 

Merlin visibly relaxed. “Eh… yeah. Yeah, that’s it exactly… I’m,” Merlin’s voice seemed to fail him for a moment. “Eh hum – I-I’m scared for you, _sire_.”

 

“Yes,” Arthur murmured, much too into his manservant’s space now. “But you need not worry, Merlin. Soon, I will find this Emrys, and burn him.” Then the king’s eyes flickered down towards the warlock’s lips, and his head was moving forward.

 

Merlin made a particularly unmanly squeak, which Arthur attributed to the fact that he was now kissing his stupid, childish, absurd, idiot of a manservant; though Merlin attributed to the fact that he didn’t particularly _like_ the idea of being burned.

 

Whatever it was, though, it was quickly forgotten as a new fire was found.

 

***

 

Needless to say, Gwaine spent a very long, very lonely night at The Rising Sun… Well, that was until he ran into a very magical looking, very familiar pair of men.

 

***


	4. These Things Will Never be Unseen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Mel, and her liver, because without them I would not have posted this fanfiction whatsoever. If you want to thank anybody for this beautiful disaster, thank her! Or, well, blame her. It's her fault.

 

 

George was quite distressed as he hurried through the halls of Camelot, intent on arriving at the King’s chambers as soon as humanly possible. It was nearly midday, yet his majesty had not shown up for council nor training, with no explanation.

The knights and councilmen, concerned for His Majesty’s well-being, had gone to retrieve His Majesty’s personal manservant – a lazy young man whose definition of cleaning made George’s innards quiver and churn in a _most_ unpleasant manner – to discover the meaning of the King’s absence, only to find that he was not in his room.

Indeed, the manservant, Merlin, was not upon the castle grounds, at _all_.

With this realization, in addition to the general knowledge of his and Sir Gwaine’s antics not two nights past, it soon became vividly clear to _everyone_ that His Majesty was probably just (once again) having an accidental lay in.

His manservant, on the other hand, was probably drunk to the gills in some shoddy tavern in the lower town, absolutely _oblivious_ to his courtly duties.

Really it was an amazement that the King even considered continued employment of the vulgar, messy, disgusting manservant. _I_ _mean_ _my gods, just look at the King’s rooms!_

Why it wasn’t a fortnight ago that George had, during a brief absence of both King and servant, gone into His Majesty’s chambers in order to fend off accumulating dust. It was during that brief period of cleaning that George had made the most _disturbing_ discovery of where the majority of the royal clothing had ‘disappeared’ to. Soon there was a succession of revelations in the form of the contents of various vases, urns, boxes, loose floorboards (dear _gods_ ) and even the space between the bed and the wall.

It had taken three days to properly clean those chambers.

Ever since then, George had taken it upon himself to clean the King’s chambers whenever he and his uncouth servant went away on business. Through this somewhat rogue manner of actions on his part, George had managed to keep the ungodly accumulation at bay… Though his recent discovery in the antechamber had made him wonder if this war would ever _truly_ be _won_ …

Being a strong man of faith and a stronger believer in the ability to overcome great plight through great effort, George liked to believe that he could, indeed, vanquish the eternal pigsty - for this was God’s way of testing his faith (and oh, it was _tested_ ).

Even so, George still found himself awoken some nights in the throes of cold sweats and flashbacks to the initial discovery of what could’ve only been _half a decade’s_ worth of built up royal _refuse_ among the seemingly innocent objects in His Majesty’s chambers.

The servant shuddered, despite the warmth of the midday sun currently streaming in through the castle windows.

He doubted he could ever fully get the stench that had greeted him as he opened the Duke of Wellton’s gift-chest out of his nose. _Oh_ , and what he had founded inside His Majesty’s royal potted _plant_ -!

Another shudder racked George’s frame as a new, horrid realization dawned upon him... That the manservant Merlin, incompetent as he was, still was undoubtedly _in charge of cleaning his own personal chambers, in addition to the King’s!_

The mere _thought_ of putting that man in charge of a space which was _inhabited_ on a _daily_ _basis_ by a living, breathing _human being_ -!

Thankfully, before George could get to the point in his train of thought that would undoubtedly leave him convulsing in the fetal position, the servant had reached His Majesty’s chambers.

With a quick, curt knock, George efficiently swung open the door, stepping into the room. He formally stood in the midst of the King’s chambers - hands folded behind his back - and began his pre-prepared speech:

“Sire, I apologize for the uncalled for interruption, but it appears as though you have slept half the day away, what with your manservant having disappeared and neglected his duties.” There was a groan from the bed as a blond head of hair began to stir. “Now, sire, if I may offer you some breakf-“

George promptly choked on air, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence, as a dark brown head of hair popped up next the His Majesty’s.

...A _very_ _familiar_ dark brown head of hair… one that haunted George’s mind in both the waking and sleeping realms for nearly three years.

“Oh- I- _Ohmy_ uh- _sire_ -“ George began to sputter. _This could never be unseen_.

King Arthur sat up in bed, the blankets pooling just below his chest and revealing a very distinct set of _bruises_ upon his persons.

George’s eyes widened at the implication. Not only was the manservant Merlin heinously remiss, but he also hadthe _gall_ to _damage_ the _King of Camelot’s_ _persons_.

George really did feel quite faint.

“Ah, George.” It was the King. His manservant was still, thankfully (if you could even use such a phrase in such a scarring situation) not fully awake, instead curled into the King’s side.

“Y-yes, sire?” It came out a squeak, and George had to remind himself how to breathe.

“Mmm could you get breakfast for two?” The King was rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Oh yes, and also, what time is it?”

M-midday, sire..” George said faintly. The fact that the room was absolutely _filthy_ did not help the servant’s state _whatsoever_. Rather, he was beginning to get the feeling as though some cataclysmal pile of dirt was attempting to suffocate him, clogging his mouth and lungs, and bringing on a _very_ serious case of tunnel vision.

_Oh gods, he would never unsee this!_

“Hmmm…” The King said contemplatively, absolutely ignorant to the current existential crisis he had triggered within the servant before him. “Well, make that brunch for two, then.”

George was only too glad to comply, for the manservant Merlin was just beginning to make happy morning groans. _Oh sweet gods of the harvest… Were those the sounds he made whe-_

_No_. The servant refused to contemplate what went on behind closed doors.

Yet even in his new resolve to secrecy and ignorance, George had the sinking realization that his nightmares had just gained a new, _terrifying_ dimension.

For he could _never_ , ever _possibly_ unsee _this_.

***

Arthur was feeling the best he had in, well, _ever_. Even this _Emrys_ fellow could not dampen the King’s brilliant high; for he had had a fascinating, exhilarating, _unbelievable_ realization the night before after a third round of pounding his manservant senseless: that he, King Arthur of Camelot, was unbelievably, hopelessly, _inexorably_ in _love_.

And better yet, the man he was in love with loved him _back_. Arthur, smiled smugly. He knew this as a _fact_ , having been there while Merlin shouted it at the top of his lungs during round two.

It really is amazing how a good fuck can get the truth out of people. Really, he should consider implementing some changes in the council… 

But then Arthur was drawn out of his reveries by a comforting snuggle on Merlin's part. Arthur's face split out into a giant, giddy (yet still regal, of _course_ ) grin at the realization that Merlin was _in his bed_ , still waking up, and making the absolutely _cutest_ series of noises. (Yes, _cutest_. Really, how many times did Arthur have to emphasis the _necessity_ for a fair and just ruler to be _well_ - _rounded_ , _multifaceted_ , and very much able to recognize something as cute when it was, in fact, _cute_?! ….Not that he would ever mention it to _said_ cute object, or _said_ cute object’s friends, or (Arthur sickened at the mere thought) cute object’s specific roguish, gruff _drinking_ _companion_ …)

Arthur frowned a bit at that.

He quickly was brought away from the implications of such a disclosure to one insubordinate knight as he listened to Merlin awakening. Those noises were cute, yes, but they kinda sounded like the sounds he made whe-

“Mmm… Arthur?”

The (regal) giddy grin was back on Arthur’s face in a flash as he looked down at the man beside him.

“Good morning _, Mer_ lin.” Arthur said, leaning down to plant a tender kiss on _his_ Merlin’s lips. Merlin responded by groaning into his mouth, but made no move to draw back.

Arthur, though, was feeling quite invigorated. This invigoration lead to his hand quickly finding its way under the covers and towards certain bits that he had, last night, decided to claim (for the greater good of Camelot, _obviously_ ) as the property of the Crown.

More specifically, the property of the King.

 Him.

Arthur.

Keep off.

Merlin, in his half sleepy daze, was more than fine with the development of things, and felt it was his duty as the personal servant to the king to encourage His Majesty’s actions with various pleasant noises and a deepened kiss.

This all was going very well, what with the royal sword getting put to very good use, save for the fact that Arthur had forgotten that the door was _unlocked_.

He and Merlin were reminded of this factoid soon enough, though, as a very estranged, _guttural_ noise came from one George; who stood, planted in the doorway, two trays of brunch balanced carefully on one arm.

The look on his face was that of a broken, hollow, shell of a man.

Arthur quickly pulled away from his manservant, who had yelped and now was pulling up the sheets as far as possible. Arthur frowned at this decision, for it was quite _rude_ , really, to so _dismissively_ cover up such a _delectable_ expansion of pale skin. He was _King_ , after all, and therefore deserved to be able to-

“S-s-sire…”

Arthur flushed a bit as he realized poor George was still rooted in the doorway.

“Ah yes, thank you George... Just put them down on the table.” Arthur gave an embarrassed, kingly nod towards the table, ignoring the squeak that Merlin made as the other servant inadvertently approached the bedded pair in his rush to dispose of the brunch _and leave the chambers_.

After the door slammed shut once more, Arthur looked over to see a very flustered, _very_ attractive Merlin next to him. Because this was quite an unacceptable state for his manservant to be in, Arthur took it upon himself, as a fair and just ruler, to change it immediately.

 

Soon, the brunch for two was all but forgotten, cooling steadily on the table next to the now-shaking royal bed.

 

***

 

Nevertheless, neither manservant nor master really seemed to care about the cool meal when they finally managed to emerge from between the sheets of said royal bed. Rather, Arthur was somewhat concerned with the way Merlin winced when he sat, while Merlin was somewhat concerned with the prospect of attempting to hide the absolutely heinous set of marks all up his neck - especially from one stood-up Sir _Gwaine_.

 

Oh, the tormenting would be _merciless_...

 

***

 

Arthur was in _quite_ a good mood. Because of this, he had called off the rest of his arrangements for the day. The King was now instead planning on spending a lovely afternoon in the forest with his absurd beloved, under the vise of a hunting trip.

 

Though of course said absurd beloved didn't know that.

 

Said beloved was _actually_ in the corner of the room at the moment, mutter to himself as he shoved various objects into a travel bag. "Stupid prat king needs to go on a stupid hunting trip... Can't keep the mood for even a day, _can_ _we_? Bleeding _monarch_ has to go and bleeding _kill_ defenseless _animals_... Bleeding _inbreds_ …"

 

Arthur ignored the traitorous ranting, only giving Merlin a somewhat confused look as the manservant tried to dislodge his foot from where it was currently caught within the bowels of a travel bag.

 

Really. He was in _love_ with a man who was losing a fight with a _sack of leather._

 

It really would be his lot that he did not fall for some princess, or even a fair maiden. Honestly, a valiant king like himself should at least fall for a fair _something_ …

 

Though of course, Merlin could be _quite_ a bit more than just _fair_ if last night was anything go off of….

 

Arthur was pulled quite abruptly from his somewhat morose thoughts by a very distinct _thunk_ and cry of defeat from the other side of the room, quickly followed by a terrific ripping sound.

 

***

  
It was a truly _lovely_ summer day, Arthur observed.

He promptly felt it was necessary (though Merlin really wished he _wouldn’t_ ), to say as much.

Merlin merely grumbled next to him, much to the amusement of Arthur.

“Oh come off it, Merlin. We only have a bit further to go.”

“What do you mean come off it? How about you try to walk straight, let alone _ride_ a bleeding _horse_ , on a hot summer day after being fu-“

“Merlin!”

“-up the arse!” Merlin gave an absolutely _tantalizing_ pout, slouching quite _sensually_ into his saddle.

“Well, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur said with a good-natured smirk, “Would you like me carry you, instead?”

Merlin gave Arthur an absolutely scalding glare. “Very funny, _sire_ , but I would rather you actually _kill_ something on this trip and get it out of your system, so we don’t have to spend _all_ _day_ wandering around like a couple of fools in this gods forsaken armpit of a forest.”

Arthur frowned at the very decidedly _un_ -beloved-like attitude of his beloved. Why ever would he be so bitter? _Really_ , he had the heart of one Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot: swordsman extraordinaire, and pretty damn good poet, (if he _did_ say so himself).

Then it hit Arthur, like an immortal sword to the chest.

_Maybe that’s what Merlin needed. Some poetry._

Arthur nodded to himself, drowning out Merlin’s current rant on ‘ _oligarchies’, ‘delegation of authority’_ and _‘separation of powers’_.

It would just not _do_ to have the King’s beloved go _poetry-less_. Really, why hadn’t he thought of it before? After all, Merlin really was _quite_ fair (perfect poetry material, actually), and very, _very_ close to a _woma_ -

Arthur nearly fell off his horse at the realization.

Maybe that was what was wrong with Merlin! _Why,_ Merlin just needed a little bit of old fashioned _wooing_! If he was such a girl in every other aspect of his entity, then obviously Merlin was expecting Arthur to treat and court him as such!

Arthur’s brow creased at the realization that dragging his beloved straight to bed might’ve not been the most _chivalrous_ decision.

But nevertheless, he, being a fair and just King, (and quite popular among the ladies), would change that _very_ soon. Though for now, it might be advantageous to begin Operation Picnic (true, Arthur already had an operation - Operation Espionage – in action, but as it was currently being executed by his knights and did not need the King’s supervision, Arthur had felt as though it was a brilliant idea to start a second operation that _did_ include His Majesty).

But just as Arthur was about to divulge the true nature of their romp in the woods, a series of grunts and scuffling noises cut the muggy summer afternoon air.

Merlin, having heard the noises, too, had abruptly cut himself off in the middle of a rant on the hierarchy of needs in relation to civil governments. Arthur thought this was quite the _good_ decision on Merlin’s part because a.) strange grunts in the forest always needed to be investigated _quietly_ and _unseen_ , in case its source was not nearly as nefarious as originally imagined (Arthur knew this from experience) and b.) it would not really _do_ to tell one’s beloved to shut up, _even_ if one’s beloved really _did_ need to clamp it.

Arthur quickly moved to dismount his mount, and spared a glance towards his manservant to see him doing the same. The noises seemed to be coming from a break in the tree line to the pair’s left.

Arthur looked at Merlin, made a motion with his hand, and then looked pointedly towards the tree line to their left.

Merlin, misunderstanding the actions of his King, looked pointedly at Arthur, made a much more _obscene_ motion with both his hands, then scowled.

 Evidently he still was sour over the lack of wooing in his life.

Arthur rolled his eyes, wanting nothing more than to slap the man in front of him, but refrained, because, well, _chivalry_. Instead, he took his manservant’s bony shoulder in a vice-like grip and steered him towards the evident meadow to their left.

As they approached, the source of the grunts was easily identified to be a strange bear-man creature and a fair maiden, caught in the midst of battle.

The maiden, whose back was to the King and his manservant, was exchanging punches with the creature before her, surprisingly nimble in her velvet dress that for all the world looked as though it belonged to a celestial being.

After giving the fight a proper, professional examination, Arthur decided that it was in everyone’s best interest for him to rush out there, sword ablaze, and save the damsel in distress from the hairy beast that was currently attempting to put her in a most unceremonious _headlock_.

So, Arthur rushed out into the field, sword ablaze.

Merlin really did think his King was stupid. Arthur hadn’t gotten within a _meter_ of the pair before a stray, hairy arm caught him in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards into the dirt, unconscious. Prat.

Of course it was now up to _Merlin_ to save the day, for the maiden was steadily being pushed back towards the tree line in which the warlock was still concealed.

Muttering phrases that would make a soldier in Cenred’s army blush, Merlin raised a hand and looked pointedly at a branch that was conveniently right above the beast. His eyes flashed gold for a second, before the branch shivered and shook, as though in a powerful wind.

It really was unfortunate that as _soon_ as the branch was separated from the tree, the maiden made slight headway in the form of a step _forward_.

Luckily, as soon as the maiden was crushed under the weight of an exceptionally large branch, Arthur regained consciousness, and was able to grab his crossbow. It only took five bolts, administered by Arthur's expert skill, to fell the beast.

Pleased with his abilities when it came to saving damsels in distress, Arthur got up and began to approach the two unmoving figures. The beast lay sprawled backwards, while the fair maiden was spread eagle, face in a pile of what (unfortunately) appeared to be shit, abnormally large tree branch pinning her down.

Even in her less than unharmed state, Arthur still felt it necessary to address her with a pre-prepared speech that he had come up with a long time ago for whenever he succeeded in saving a damsel in distress. (Which was always. Arthur _never_ failed. Ever.)

“Fear not, fair maiden! For it is I, Arthur, King of Camelot and your most humble savior! I have vanquished your attacker!" Arthur put on his most regal, heroic face at this. Merlin merely watched, amusement and concern mixing with his pissy mood, from the tree line. 

The 'fair maiden' groaned, a very deep, guttural thing, as she pushed herself up from the muddled ground. Sitting up, she turned to look at her pair of saviors. Both men immediately frowned as it was fairly well known that fair maidens did not, indeed, possess excessive facial hair. Actually, they usually possessed little to none, save for eyebrows, because it would just be strange to come across a maiden without eyebrows, of all things…

Merlin’s face quickly scrunched into confused recognition, as he looked upon the person before them. "...Gwaine..?"

Arthur’s face quickly relaxed into realization as he caught the familiar features of the face under the caking of shit.

 Arthur's face quickly scrunched back up at the realization that said familiar knight was not, indeed, guarding the battlements of Camelot, but rather in the middle of the _forest_ in quite the complementing _dress,_ battling some strange bear-man with his _bare hands_.

Arthur's face sunk further as he had a grounding realization...

_This would never be unseen._

***


	5. Of Impostors and Honey Holes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow okay guys, I just wanna say I am absolutely floored by all the amazing comments and support! I love you all and wow while I'm at it, pleaaassseee don't kill me for a late update... I kinda got writer's block, then school kicked me in the teeth. But hey! I see a (more intense) chapter in the near future!

***

  
Sir Percival and Sir Leon were having a grand old time at the tavern, having drunken their way past any form of knightly reserve and now quite into the way of unquestionable drunkenness. Even with the new inhibition, though, Sir Leon (and Sir Percival) still liked to believe that they were more than capable of handling themselves when it came to serious threats to the royal crown. They were knights of Camelot, after all, and they also knew Gwaine (which in itself gave them a natural 12% raise in resilience to alcohol).

 

This being such, it came as no surprise that when the moment arose in which there was a very definite need for the two undercover Knights of Camelot that, even in their somewhat smashed state, they easily delivered.

 

You see, it all started when their subtle espionage (which had ended with the two men very much enjoying the view of the underside of a somewhat bland table) was very _rudely_ interrupted by a particularly _loud_ proclamation.

 

Specifically, the proclamation was in the form of a somewhat stout older gentleman, front soaked with mead, grabbing a jug, throwing it at nobody in particular (indeed, it was the early afternoon and there was nobody in particular around to throw said poorly aimed jug _at_ ) while shouting:

 

"TIS I! THE MIGHTY EMRYS!"

 

Sir Percival turned to his companion, who was spinning in quite the discouraging manner. "Ey, Leon... Wha was that?"

 

Sir Leon gave a knightly shrug that really looked more as though he were trying to stay upright in a particularly nasty wind, which was strange - considering both undercover Knights were (of current) splayed out on the ground.

 

"The kinng," he said, his speech a bit slurred, "The King wanted us to apprehend the- the _followers_ of Emrys."

 

"Emrys...?" Percival's face scrunched up as though it had totally slipped his mind. "Oh.. Yes..." The burly knight nodded in a manner that conveyed his utmost lack of understanding."

 

"Emrys, you big bloke!" Leon said, attempting to hit the man next to his in a brotherly gesture of emphasis. Instead, he found his hand in a surprisingly warm liquid. "Oh _gods_ -“ Leon said, his eyes widening. He knew very much what _exactly_ was warm _and_ a liquid, and oh _gods_ it had come from the knight next to him.

 

“Per- Percival of _Carbonek_!" Leon was flailing a bit now, looking absolutely distraught.

 

"Wha-t?" Percival said, looking abnormally green, and absolutely oblivious to the plight of the senior knight next to him.

 

"Percival!" Leon said again, repressing a hiccup. "You _peed_ on my _hand_!"

 

Percival mumbled something incoherent, which Leon took as an encouraging statement of agreement.

 

"Percival, h- how _could_ you," Leon seemed to choke on his words, too overwhelmed with his feelings. "Don't you _know_?" His voice cracked as he tried to nudge the (now snoring) man beside him, but only managing to splatter the liquid for about a meter radius. " _Knights_ don't _pee_!"

 

By now Sir Leon was very much crying at this realization that Sir Percival was, in fact, not a _Sir_ at all. Because in his extensive and reliable knowledge as Arthur’s second in command, there was the very common, underlying fact that knights did not, in fact, _pee_ on other knights. This practice was actually quite frowned upon by the code, and any knight who felt it necessary to relieve himself on another knight, well, he wouldn’t be a knight for much longer.

 

The emotions began to overwhelm the older knight. Soon, Leon’s hand was all but forgotten in the jug of warm mead that had been dragged under the table, as he lamented the fall of the brave Knight Sir Percival (who would now, according to Leon's surprisingly accurate ability to foretell the future, become a rabbit farmer/prostitute).

 

Percival, in the meanwhile, snorted in his sleep.

 

This unfortunate turn for the downright _heart_ _wrenching_ would have continued probably indefinitely if it wasn't for a well aimed jug smashing into one ( _ex_ ) Sir Percival, promptly awakening him.

 

Sir Leon, in the meanwhile, finally registered that his hand was, in _fact_ , residing in a particularly room temperature jug of _mead_ and not, indeed, _piss_. His exclamation of relief at the realization that he would not have to someday visit Percival on his rabbit farm only to be forced to administer upon him an antidote for the clap, was drowned out by another shout from the older gentleman named Emrys - who was busy trying to climb onto the rafters.

 

"Leon!" Percival looked at the man (men) next to him. "Leon, that bloke," the not-rabbit-farmer-prostitute-with-the-clap Knight drawled, "just said he's _Emrys_." The last bit was whispered, in order to not draw attention to the fact that the man shouting his name was Emrys had, in fact, just been found out to be the man named Emrys.

 

Leon, who always prided himself in his ability to conquer even the most troublesome odds, looked at his brother in arms as a fish would look at its brother in arms. Or well, as a fish would look at anything. Leon looked very much like a fish. But his appearance mattered little as he promptly and firmly took hold of the situation. "P-Percival, we need to take him,” burp, “ _in_!" He hissed back.

 

Percival nodded and moved to get up, met the solid obstacle that was the table above, thought better of actually _getting_ _up_ , then, on his way back to the slowly rocking ground, had an amazingly coherent realization.

 

Leon, in the meantime, had managed to drool on himself.

 

"Leon, ey, _Leon_."

 

"Wha....t....?"

 

"Mate," Percival whispered once more in a supposedly confidingly (but in all actuality loud and obnoxious) tone, "what - if he _isn't_ \- Emrys?"

 

Leon promptly resumed his impression of a fish as this new, saucy twist in their operation was unveiled. " _Well_..." He said, in a manner most befitting of a head knight, "We should ask him to prove it."

 

"What - what if he's dangerous?" Percival said, making magical finger motions to emphasize his point (though sadly, since he and Leon were of currently laying side by side, the only object that actually managed to _view_ said emphasis was the unimpressed table).

 

"Well," Leon said, easily sliding into his position as senior knight. "We have our swords." He nodded in agreement with himself, but then immediately stopping as it made the room spin even faster than usual.

It appeared as though Leon's absolutely unsettling explanation was settling enough for Percival, for the burly knight contently shut up.

 

Both knights managed to ignore the fact that they actually _did not have_ their swords.

 

Nevertheless, on a sloppy count of three (or was it five?) Percival and Leon promptly disengaged themselves from their residence under the table with as much grace and beauty as would be expected from any knight of Camelot (as long as said knight of Camelot's name happened to be _Gwaine_ and he happened to have been drinking for a week on end).

 

The pair then - while supporting each other - confronted the man who claimed to be named Emrys, from his vantage within the rafters.

 

Leon, feeling quite clever, shouted in rebuttal to yet another jug and yelp of ‘I am Emrys, fear me!’: "Prove that you're 'im!"

 

The man within the rafters peered from behind an exceptionally large jug, then said, "Who are you to question the powers of the Great and Mighty _Emrys_ \- savior of the Druids?!"

 

Leon was quite a bit taken aback at the quite frankly rude response. Really, sorcerers these days had no respect for authority. The whole affair left Sir Leon not only looking a bit like a fish, but acting like one, too: i.e., brainless.

 

Percival, though, always prided himself as not only a superb judge of character, but also as man well versed in the art of reading people. Therefore, with all the ease that approximately twenty four hours in a tavern can gift a man with, the knight nodded and picked up Leon's end of the conversation. "We," he said, with a grandiose point of the finger, "Are Knights of Camelot. If you prove that _you're_ -" hiccup "-Emrys, then we will arrest you!"

 

The man in the rafters seemed quite flattered by the whole situation, and, with a loud _plomp_ , jumped down. He moved to stand in front of the Knights in a stance that could only be taken as threatening yet elegant.

 

"Well, then, Sir _Knights_ , servers of the wicked _King_ -! Prepare to feel my wrath, as I turn you," a pudgy finger was shoved in Leon's personal space, "into a princess!"

 

And before either knight could respond, the man named Emrys threw something suspiciously similar to sand at them.

 

Percival blinked.

 

"Well blast it," Leon said from where he was hanging off the larger knight's side. "I feel prettier already!"

 

Percival agreed, looking at the smaller man next to him. Or, well men. It was hard to count, really. "Your hair has gotten longer!"

 

Leon gasped at the realization (or, well, _apparent_ realization, as it was actually the same length as before it was riddled with sand).  "Why, it _is_ Emrys!” Then the whole weight of the situation crashed into Camelot’s head knight as he hissed, “ _Sorcerer_!"

 

The man Emrys smiled somewhat smugly, right up until he was tackled by two highly inebriated Knights... Or, well, a knight and a princess.

 

***

Arthur rode along beside Gwaine, simmering in a very kingly manner (if he did say so himself), his scowl burning intently on anything and everything in its path.

 

Well anything and everything except for Merlin. But that was mainly because the manservant could not actually _see_ Arthur’s most impressive glare at the moment. Instead, his view mainly consisted of the legs of Arthur’s horse, and the ground, blurring by with surprising speed.

 

Arthur, though, was not only able to see the muggy forest, as well as one muggy, hungover she-Gwaine, but also one lovely, firm, Merlin-bum. As he gaze once more moved to gloss over this marvel of nature (which had stopped struggling about an hour ago) he idly lamented his failed Operation Picnic – which was all _Gwaine’s_ fault.

 

At this thought, Arthur once again shot a glare at the shitfaced (literally) knight riding on the horse next to him, who was strategically examining his painted nails instead of his King. Oh, he was very much going to have a nice, long, talk with the bastard once they were alone… A nice, calm, throwing-him-into-a-lake-and-then-rowing-away _talk_. Or better yet – maybe just locking him in the royal library for a week, and seeing how he feels about the laws against consorting with magical creatures _afterwards_.

 

_I mean come on! The bugger was in a dress because he had evidently ‘lost a bet with a malicious talking badger’, and was fighting that bugger which he called ‘bigfoot’_ (Arthur snorted at the obviously made up name) _over being ‘dared to raid his honey hole’._

 

Arthur gave a silent shudder, despite the warm day and warmer armor he currently wore. He had stopped his knight at that. Really, no need to go into the crude actions that magic evokes within a person.

_What the hell even was a honey hole?_ Arthur shook his head. He really didn't want to know.

 

The only good thing that had arisen from this whole situation was that now Arthur had a very lovely view of the more interesting bits of his manservant, and a firm grip on his upper thigh with the hand he was not leading his horse with.

 

This whole situation actually almost made the destruction of Operation Picnic by one (very close to being _ex_ ) Sir Gwaine.

 

_Almost_. Arthur thought, with a glower. He let his hand begin to move in calming circles on the back of his manservant’s thigh.

Really, that was much more calming than any bag stuffed with _sand_.

 

The king snorted. Gaius had been quite surprised when the king had showed up in his chambers with a handful of sand and a mouthful about possibly trying his quirky new experiments on a suitable _test_ _subject_ – such as _Mer_ lin (who had objected from the other room) – instead of the _crown king of Camelot._

 

Though of course, Arthur had ended up being the one apologizing. Really, he did not know _how_ Gaius' eyebrows _did_ it-!

 

Arthur was suddenly pulled from his reveries by a muffled noise. His brows crunched into a most _kingly_ look of confusion as his head swiveled from side to side.

Gwaine bit his hand in a way that very much implied a covered laugh.

Arthur glowered at the knight, who promptly had enough sense to go back to examining his chipped nails. The noise happened again, and Arthur had the good grace to look _down_ and realize that it was actually coming from the bum in front of him. Or, well, its owner.

Merlin, it seemed, was grumbling something quite _unintelligible_ into the side of the saddle onto which his face was inadvertently pressed. Arthur pursed his lips. It had actually _quite_ sounded like something along the lines of: ‘damn _prat_ kings and their damn need to torment their damn _servants_. All of this could’ve just been avoided if somebody didn’t decide to go on a damn _hunting_ _trip_! Ohhh chivalry my _ass_ you do not offer a _lady_ a ride and then lay _her_ over the front of the saddle. So really, why would you assume that that's how _I_ want to ride home? Really, damn dollophead can’t even be properly _chivalrous_?!’

 

Arthur’s pursed lips melted into a smirk as he slid his hand up to cup a –

 

Merlin squealed, trying to get off the horse.

 

Gwaine pointedly began to examine his other set of painted nails.

 

Okay, maybe it was alright that Operation Picnic was a no go.

 

***

As it was, Arthur, Merlin and Gwaine - in all his maiden glory - arrived at Camelot at precisely the perfect time to run into the drunken mess that was Operation Espionage.

 

Arthur, being the calm statesman he was, had unceremoniously swung Merlin down (giving the younger man something very liken to a severe case of _whiplash_ ), and then had run to the drunken knights, and smirking sorcerer. Within a minute after the king had started shouting, a crowd of guards had swarmed the square in the lower town, promptly sweeping the whole entourage away towards the castle.

Meanwhile, Merlin had watched from a dozen meters away, looking for all the world somewhat confused, and overwhelmingly _nauseous_.

Gwaine, at the sight of his distraught friend, had walked up behind him, (holding up the edge of his dress so as to not trip up), and clapped the young servant on the back.

Gwaine then muttered something about getting the chicken suit ready.

 

The knight began to choke quite abruptly as he found his corset tightening on its own accord.

“Okay, okay, _Gods_ , Merlin!” He’d choked out, “Maybe not the chicken suit!”

***

Arthur was quite pleased with the way that Operation Espionage had worked so smoothly. He'd always known it would be a success, what with the King _himself_ devising the plan and only his _finest_ Knights (who, as it turned out, were still impeccable and efficient in their service to the Crown, even while highly inebriated) executing them.

Arthur paused in his thought, snorting at his wordplay. Heh. Execute. Sorcerer.

He actually hadn't even tried to make a pun, right then. But of course a king such as himself (and Arthur straighten a bit at this, into a more regal position) would just _naturally_ incorporate wit and skill into his everyday actions. Why, the humor that someone such as himself had on a day to day basis was quite _phenomenal_ \- surely it is much more developed than _Mer_ lin's, let alone _Gwai_ -

"Arthur, have you happened to finally've gone brain dead?"

Arthur scowled, looking around for the source of the quite frankly rude (and by no means _funny_ ) comment. And the source, of course, was Merlin.

" _Mer_ lin, is that any way to address your King?" Arthur said, putting as much aloof contempt into his expression and voice as humanly possible.

Merlin quite liked to think of said expression as the one the King would make if he had just had a particularly _uncomfortable_ stick shoved up his ass.

"Well, sire," the manservant started with a cheeky grin, "I would say it's a _way_ to address a King, though not particularly considered a _proper_ way to address one, if that's what you're asking. Though I tend to rather not think of you as much as a _King_ , but  rather a giant, raging _teddy bear_ that just needs somebody to sit on it long enough for it to calm down."

"Merlin." Arthur said, pushing his fingers into his eyes in a desperate attempt to claw out the part of his brain that had emotions for the man currently smiling innocently in front of him.

"Yes, sire?"

"Do _shut up._ "

"Yes, sire."

Arthur nodded at this and turned back to the papers in front of him, ignoring his manservant.

There was a large clunking sound, to which Arthur carefully school himself so as not to react. In his peripheral, the king could see (and promptly chose to _ignore_ ) the way Merlin was now going about the room with a particularly large bucket.

Then, to the king’s utmost annoyance, Merlin began to bang around, making Arthur’s hand tighten dangerously around his quill. _No_ , he would not give Merlin the satisfaction of getting under his skin. He knew for a fact (what with the cheeky attitude) that the servant was still angry about the hunting trip. Really, it wasn’t even meant to be a _hunting trip_ – it was supposed to be a godsforsaken _picnic_! If Merlin was going to childishly hold grudges, though, then let him. Arthur was King, after all, and due to such he needed to upkeep his maturity and stature.

Therefore, laced with a new vigor, the king steadied himself in his seat.

And Arthur – in a new level of truly meditative contempt - continued to look at the papers he needed to sign in order to sentence Emrys, and managed pointedly ignore (with some of his much loved breathing exercises) the way his manservant appeared to now be generously distributing _rocks_ around his bedchambers.

Said manservant soon left the room, much to Arthur's relief. He was starting to get genuinely annoyed. But the king refused to acknowledge the neatly stacked pile of rocks that had been placed opposite him, at the end of his desk. No, it would just not do for Arthur to be provoked back into speaking with his fully insubordinate manservan-

Then there was a crunching sound, followed by what sounded suspiciously like a bucket of _dirt_ being poured out onto a fine wood floor.

Arthur's quill snapped.

"MERLIN!" He yelled, turning around just in time to see his guilty-looking manservant, upturned bucket in his hand, kicking a particularly large mound of – yes - _dirt_ under the royal bed.

"Yes, sire?" He said innocently, continuing his kicking. Arthur's eyes scanned the room, noticing a large amount of bland, grey rocks had been distributed over the various surfaces.

"Why." Arthur drawled in a voice he saved especially for when Merlin was acting like a particularly daft chunk of _wood_. "Exactly. Are you. Shoving dirt. Under. My _bed_."

Merlin smiled a genial, guilty grin. "Oh, sire,  I just figured that you would like to become more in touch with the natural world. You know it's very _fashionable_ to have natural rooms, nowadays. Why - evidently the kingdoms on the mainland have been doing it for _years_ now, w-"

"Merlin." Arthur cut off his manservant's silly prattling, while shoving his fingers back into his eyes with a new vigor. "I am going to go down to the training fields and destroy several dummies. If by the time I am back, there is still a _trace_ of your _unbelievable_ stupidity, then you will become _one_ of said dummies. Understood?"

There was a pause, then:

"Actually, sire," Merlin started. "I would hope you'd be more specific about what _type_ of stupidity that you wish for me to be rid of... You see, I have been told by multiple, trusted sources (yourself being one of them) that I have a very special _type_ of stupidity 'that can never be disentangled from my essence...' To quote Gaius..." He trailed off at the particularly scalding look Arthur was giving him.

" _Mer_ lin..." Said the king warningly.

"Right, right, very right, sire, please don't let me be a hindrance to your training." Merlin said, quickly jumping up and running out of the room.

Arthur closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

He needed a drink.

***

Merlin had to admit that distributing the wardings - disguised as rocks - and the enchantment-weakening dirt -disguised as, well, _dirt_ \- with Arthur in the room was probably not his _best_ idea. Actually, it was probably one of his less than good ones. Well, considering that he was spreading magical rocks in the chambers of the King of Camelot, it probably actually was closer to one of his _worst_ ideas.

But, in his own defense, Merlin hadn't been thinking very straight all week, what with first his enchantment gone wrong, then the new development between himself and the king, then with this _fake_ Emrys... And let's not forget _Gwaine's_ adventure with 'bigfoot's honey hole'.

The manservant stopped what he was currently doing (which just so happened to be shoving his magical rocks and dirt into various containers around the room, as well as under the floorboards) to shudder.

Really, it was a surprise that Merlin was keeping it all together so well.

He needed to do something about this new Emrys. Merlin had no clue who the man was, nor why in the world he'd want to be Emrys. (Well, besides for the automatic respect and obedience... But if he was after that, well _Camelot_ wasn't exactly the place to demand it...)

Well, _whatever_ it was, if Merlin didn't do something about this delusional man's delusions, then motivation wouldn't really matter, because there wouldn't _be_ any fake.

Merlin sighed, putting the last of the floorboards back into place with a loving stomp. And then there was another problem, that of one burly, roguish kni-

"Hey Merlin! Mate, I've been looking everywhere for you!"

....Yeah. That.

Merlin groaned as a now properly dressed Gwaine came bounding into the King's chambers.

 

From the way the knight was grinning ear to ear, Merlin could just feel it.

 

It was going to be a long week.

**  
*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Not gunna lie, this isn't my best chapter. But it's more of a filler, setting up for some more interesting stuff.


	6. Escape (?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah haha those pitchforks aren't for me, right? They're for, like, the sorcerer... Riiiiight??

Chapter 6

Arthur was thoroughly pleased with the fact that Emrys was safely behind bars – set to burn to a crisp the morning after next. The execution had originally been set for today, but there was still a mark on Arthur (as far as anybody could figure), and Geoffrey had been charged with figuring out how to remove it.

Because it very much needed to be removed.

Preferably before the one man who could possibly remove it was burned.

To a crisp.

Forever.

Arthur frowned, pausing in his leisurely stroll that just so _happened_ to take him through a dainty meadow of daffodils and forget-me-nots.

It was absolutely not planned.

Arthur scoffed at the mere _thought_ that he would have, having been in such a good mood from the success of Operation Espionage, decided to cancel practice this morning and instead meander through meadows.

Pff. As if.

Though now that he thought about it (because he had _definitely_ not thought of it before hand) the ambiance of the meadow was quite romantic, and nearly perfect for planning ‘Operation Wooing Merlin (Because He is Such a Girl)’.

Arthur smirked a very kingly smirk. He had come up with that code name all by himself.

The king’s smirk quickly fell from his face, though, when he was rudely reminded (by himself, admittedly) of the mission at hand… That is, to properly court Merlin.

The problem was that though Arthur was quite the charmer when it came to the ladies, Merlin was, despite all doubts, very much not a woman. Arthur had _checked_.

 _Twice_.

So what, then, would be a proper way to court a _man_ (admittedly feminine as he was)? The King had originally considered consulting Gwaine about the matter, but then thought immediately better of it after realizing that he was considering consulting _Gwaine_. Then he had considered asking Gwen, only to remember that she and Lancelot were still on their honeymoon.

Arthur really didn’t want to interrupt any of _that_.

The King shuddered, despite the warm breeze. He had once made the mistake on waltzing into Gwen’s shack without knocking (for really, why in the bloody hell would the damn _King_ have to knock? According to Merlin it was for ‘privacy’, and out of ‘respect’. Arthur had never actually taken his manservant _seriously_ on the subject until that fateful afternoon, though).

The King groaned, slowing in his walk. Why couldn’t he just court Merlin as easily as Lancelot had courted Guinevere?  Why did it have to be so damn _hard_?!

Just as Arthur was about to collapse with frustration and _give up_ , he had a realization. He was _King_. Before he was even king, Arthur had faced off against armies, assassins, sorcerers and magical beings and gods _dammit_ a _dragon_ , and won!  Arthur had faced much viler, treacherous challenges than this, and with his kingly might and quick wit, he could undoubtedly overcome this one, too. Arthur just needed to think through this.

Arthur needed a _plan_.

Wooing consisted of various things: presents, strolls (and/or picnics), displays of affection, compliments and heartfelt _poetry_.

Arthur frowned, moving to sit on – and therefore demolish - a particularly dense clump of dandelions.

What types of presents could Merlin possibly want..? Maybe a new neckerchief, (no matter how ridiculous they looked on him). Arthur could have him fitted by Terry (the royal tailor), and get the man a proper wardrobe, or maybe buy his manservant a jug of fine wine (considering how much of a drunkard he was. Arthur frowned, thinking back to his musings on getting his manservant a councilor. He really couldn’t be found with his head in the jug if he ever became the royal consort…).

Maybe not the wine, then.

Maybe Arthur could give Merlin a day off, instead.

Arthur snorted. Like hell. The King needed his manservant too much for that, and was decidedly more grumpy and less kingly if he didn’t get at _least_ his usual daily dose of Merlin-bum imagery.

Arthur frowned, glancing around the meadow. Would Merlin be adverse to flowers? The idea was almost immediately shot down, though. Considering how the man treated the royal potted plants, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to put him in charge of a living creature that was (poor thing) unable to _escape_.

The crease in Arthur’s brow became dangerously deep – to the point where Merlin would usually claim to smell the tell-tale smoke from over-exertion – then suddenly flattened out in realization.

Of course!

The king grinned, looking around the meadow for inspiration. He was quite good at poetry. He could write Merlin some proper poetry, and maybe have dinner for two à la royal chambers.

Feeling a sudden invigoration at this new plan of attack (Arthur could’ve kissed himself for how ingenious said plan was – but didn’t, because that’s what _manservants_ were for), the king shoved himself off the now demolished pile of dandelions. A quick, scooping movement left Arthur with a handful of stray flowers (for the table setting, of course), and then he was off.

 

***

 

Arthur was feeling quite pleased with himself as he walked out of the front of the castle, scroll of delicately penned poetry in hand, in search of his manservant.

Arthur was suddenly quite _displeased_ when, in the middle of the courtyard, he managed to spot said manservant.

Or rather, an exceedingly large, exceedingly _soggy_ , chicken.

Arthur couldn’t help but yelp, a very unkingly thing, and then scowled, because, well…

Merlin in a chicken suit did _things_ to Arthur… and Gwaine, the bugger, _knew_ _that_.

Oh, _this was the last straw._

 

***

 

**A few hours earlier (when a certain patch of dandelions was still alive and thriving)**

 

“Merlin, mate, you can’t just let him burn.” Gwaine had said, sloshing (yes, _sloshing_ ) up next to the pile of clothing that was the king’s manservant.

Merlin yelped, sending the royal dirty laundry to a surprising altitude with his start. “Gwaine!”

“Mhmm?” Gwaine said, encouragingly, taking a giant mouthful of mead from a waterskin as he eyed Merlin with a peculiar squint. A squint that implied that the man was _thinking_.

Which, if anyone knew anything, Gwaine thinking was a very _bad thing_.

Merlin was staring wide-eyed at Gwaine as he bent to collect the now gently floating royal linens. “Gwaine, you can’t talk about – about _this_ – _here_!” he hissed, shaking a royal, evidently shit-coated sock in the knight’s direction.

Said knight was unfazed by the obvious threat, and instead took another swig of mead from his pouch. “What do you mean, mate?”

Merlin colored unpleasantly at this. “No. _No_ I know why you are here, and you know what I mean, and I know what you want me to do, and I sure as _hell_ am not going to do that! _Ever_!”

Gwaine, a bit buzzed from approximately three quarts of Shoddy Tod’s finest (all drunken before breakfast, thank you very much), merely raised his eyebrows in a what’s-his-problem manner and muttered something unintelligible.

Merlin colored further at this, because evidently in addition to his magical astuteness, he was also fluent in Unintelligible. “Gwaine! _Shut up_! Look, you want to talk about this whole –“ linen laden hands flailed in a questionable portrayal of the burning of fake Emrys “ – then be my guest. But do _not_ say anything about – about –“ the manservant colored to the point that it looked _unhealthy_ at the prospect of translating the unfazed knight’s statement.

Gwaine rolled his eyes, deciding the best way to disarm a ticking Merlin was with a loud, resounding thump on the back - which, in a particularly manly realm meant comradely friendship.

To Merlin, it meant back issues by the age of thirty seven.

“Merlin, mate,” Gwaine said, throwing a log of an arm (waterskin still in hand) over Merlin’s shoulder. “We need to talk.”

Any further arguments from Merlin were drowned out (quite literally) by a warm flow of mead.

“Shhh, don’t worry, mate, it’s just your nerves there.” Gwaine said comfortingly, bringing his second hand up to latch like a bloody _leech_ onto the manservant’s shoulder.

Merlin made a bubble of a response, spittling and finally swallowing the unbelievably strong mead.

“I know, mate, I know.” Gwaine patted the manservant’s arm comfortingly as he forced the smaller man towards a more secluded wing of the castle. “Don’t worry, I’ve already got a plan. All I need is for you to put something on…I’ll be able to do the rest..”

It was quite surprising how resounding Merlin’s strangled shout of protest was, considering Gwaine’s painful grip and Shoddy Tod’s finest both doing their very best to make breathing _impossible_.

Merlin decided at that moment that he was going to _kill_ Gwaine.

 

***

 

**Post Dandelion Morteum**

A certain warlock was interrupted from his brooding over all the possible hexes and curses that would be very _befitting_ for a _certain_ gruff, tavern-y knight (he had decided a bit back to start with one that kept the victim eternally _sober_ ) by an absolutely _purple_ Arthur, King of Camelot.

Maybe if Merlin stayed absolutely still, then Arthur wouldn’t see him, and stalk right by, towards… something else.

But as the King made surprising time across the courtyard, Merlin had the sinking realization that he had, in fact, been correct that other night. Staying motionless would do little else save cramp his muscles.

For Arthur could, indeed, _smell fear._

Merlin, who had conveniently forgotten how to breath at this realization, was quickly startled back into the world of the living as a particularly _firm_ grip (liken to that of, oh, I don’t know, a _vice_ ) clamping down on his upper arm.

“ _Merlin_.” Arthur _growled_ , yanking his manservant and promptly dragging him back towards the main body of Camelot.

“I – uh –“ Merlin began to stutter, stopping when he tripped over a particularly chunky bit of ground. The soggy chicken suit was really doing nothing for his agility.

Arthur ignored his manservant entirely, instead dragging him up a flight of stairs and past a pair of sympathetic guards.

“Uh – Arthur –“ Merlin began again as he sprinted to keep up with Arthur’s unyielding grip, else face life without his left arm (which, despite it not being his dominant arm, still managed to worm its way far enough into the warlock’s heart to make him desperately _not_ want to part with it). “Arthur, I can explain –“

Whatever Merlin was about to say was quickly cut off by another firm yank. Thankfully, as it turned out, the vice around his arm (that had probably severed a tendon) released.

Merlin, with all his nature grace and blessèd glory, managed to not only careen forward into a very intimate meeting with the floor, but also somehow dragged a chair, an urn and two vases down with him.

A floor that he… recognized.

Merlin frowned as a pair of royal, muddy _(that bleeding prat)_ boots swam into his vision.

“Take it off.”

Merlin’s frowned deepened. He was still a bit groggy from whatever Gwaine had fed him (because really, whatever the _hell_ that was, it was _not_ mead) - and the hearty dose of fear that an angry Arthur managed to fill the warlock with did nothing to help that state.

He rather felt like a trauma victim at the moment.

“Merlin…”

Merlin’s frown deepened even further, as if he were trying very hard to function on a basic level.

There was a huff from above him, and Merlin looked up to see a very annoyed and – flustered? – Arthur.

Oh. Arthur.

“Umm….” Merlin said, finally looking around himself. He was sprawled in a most unceremonious fashion across the floor of the royal chambers. The floor he had stared at the night before while Arthur had –

Oh… Yeah.. That’s why that was familiar.

“Merlin, I knew you were dense, but _really_! You do realize that you are manservant to the king, right? And that – oh, I don’t know – you should _bloody well act like it?!”_

Merlin gulped. “I – um – yes… sire..?”

Arthur glared down at his manservant for a moment more, making him squirm in a most delicious sort of way.

“Now come on, take it off.”

Merlin blinked owlishly. Then scrambled to unceremoniously stand up, ruffling some feathers in his effort.

“Ummm…”

Arthur quirked an eyebrow at his manservant’s unusual modesty. “Well?”

“Oh. Well, I, um.. I’m not really wearing anything… under..” Merlin gave a feathery, helpless shrug.

Arthur internally groaned. He was going to _kill_ Gwaine.

But before he did that, he needed to get his manservant all sorted out…

An unbelievably devilish grin spread across the king’s face at the realization of exactly what that entailed.

 

***

 

The next morning (nearly afternoon) found George carefully knocking on his majesty’s chamber door before coming in.

To not do so would probably kill the particularly fragile mental state that the manservant had been experiencing lately.

George allowed himself a moment of glowering towards the wooden door as he heard a series of thumps, bumps and muttered curses. Really _, whose fault was it that he hadn’t slept properly in a week?! Whose fault was it that he had a bloody_ fragile _mental state?!_

Calm breaths. George quickly reminded himself. He needed to take calm breaths.

The manservant battled with his emotions, professionalism winning over at the last minute. George’s face slid into a mask of perfect servitude just as the door was wretched open to reveal…

George mentally sighed, adverting his eyes.

Of course _he_ was wearing a _blanket_.

Only. A blanket.

George gritted his teeth together, popping something out of joint that really shouldn’t be anywhere _near_ out of joint in the process.

“Oh… Hullo…? Um, Arthur – _King_ Arthur – is a tad busy at the moment…” Merlin trailed off, looking a bit awkward, or maybe embarrassed - not making eye contact, but instead inspecting something that must be absolutely _riveting_ just over George’s shoulder.

George, for one, could only gape as he took in the King’s manservant.

George was never one for admiring his fellow servants – or, well, _anyone_. Yet he had to admit that Merlin, at the moment was a sight to be seen. The tussled hair, lean, sinewy body, bruised lips -

Merlin squealed, wriggling away from something on the other side of the door, making George inadvertently squeal in response, jumping back with decidedly _un_ -servant-like finesse.

“Arthur! Dear _gods_!”

George nearly squealed a second time when the King of Camelot’s head popped up on Merlin’s shoulder, arms wrapping around the manservant’s blanketed waist.

“George. I thought I told Phillip that the council meeting was canceled.” The King said, looking at George in a very placated manner – as though he had had a particularly good training session… Not at all _embarrassed_ to have been caught -

George’s mouth flapped helplessly.

Arthur’s eyebrows inched up his forehead. George vaguely wondered if his King was even wearing clothing…

“George…?”

“I – uh – _So_ sorry, sire, but it appears as though I have been mistaken!” George yelped out, rushing through his words, finally regaining control of his body in order to very nearly sprint away from – from –

Oh, the _nightmares_!

 

***

 

Arthur frowned in a decidedly ‘kingly yet confused’ manner.

Merlin squirmed a bit in his arms, moving to close the door. “What got into him?”

Arthur was a bit busy doing other _things_ with his mouth, but managed to make his muffled ‘muhmmph’ sound enough like ‘ _I_ dunno’ to satisfy Merlin.

Who was being a bloody slow _lump_ when it came to closing the door.

Merlin laughed. “Oh my gods, Arthur, let me close the door first - ! _Shite_!”

Arthur smirked a the door slammed shut with a resounding thud. Still doing said _things_ with his mouth, Arthur managed to multitask as he moved to turn the lock.

Which… never happened…

..because the lock suddenly was not there, because somebody had just wretched the damn thing _open_.

Somebody who, unlucky for him, was pretty damn recognizable.

 

….Arthur only wished that looks could _kill_.

 

***

 

The summer morning had just settled on Camelot’s bustling markets long enough to be considered calm, even going to the lengths of calling it ‘ _quaint’_.

So of course, the calm had settled just in time to be broken by the loud, resounding clinging of the warning bells. There was a flurry of movements on the battlements as guards swarmed into formation at the sound of “He’s escaped!”,  “Emrys has escaped!”. Swords were drawn, metal feet rushed over worn stones, startled and alarmed people rushed out of the way of a flurry of mounted horses, some yelping or shrieking in surprise.

A true racket was being raised. The only sound that was able to drown out this already fervent rush was one name, yelled clear and angrily – startling some nearby maids and centries:

“ _GWAINNNEEE!”_

 

_***_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a more serious note: Yea this is a filler chapter, but seriously it's been hard to find the time to write. I love all of you guys who have supported me thus far, and I hope you liked this chapter! (Not gunna lie, I wrote it while on a road trip. To Chicago. With le family like a foot away. Yeh....)
> 
> Anyway, if you guys wanna see anything put in this story (no promises) you can leave a suggestion in the comments or on my tumblr (pendragonbae --yes that is my url), and depending on how hard I laugh/cry/whatever, it might just get put in! Or you can just yell at me. 
> 
> Please don't yell at me.


	7. When the Shit Hits the Medieval Fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the suggestions and support! Keep 'em coming! (I sadly haven't been able to incorporate any into this chapter, but fear not! They'll be coming along soon!)
> 
> Also, I want to dedicate this chapter to that lovely anon who messaged me on tumblr! You're an absolute sweetheart. This somewhat angsty chapter goes out to you ;D

Chapter 7

 

“Arthur! You’re over reacting!” Merlin nearly shouted, running (in a manner that was quite unbecomingly, might he add) after one very, very, _very_ pissed off King of Camelot.

 Arthur growled – yes _growled_ \- and whirled around in the deserted hallway to face his manservant.

“Me,” The King said, his voice cracking with incredulity. “Over _reacting_?! Merlin! How in the hell –“ Arthur’s voice cracked a second time (in one sentence, Merlin added warily. That could only mean one of three things: one, he was recovering from glorious sex; two, he was a prepubescent tween; or three: he was unbelievably _pissed off_. Quite frankly Merlin didn’t think it option number two was very possible, as for the fact that he had actually _seen_ that Arthur was very much no longer a tween, but rather a well developed, mouthwateringly delicious hunk of a king. Now, it could be number _one_ , though – because quite frankly the warlock wouldn’t put it past himself to perform so well that his partner actually still felt the aftershocks _hours_ _later_ -).

“MERLIN!”

Merlin jumped a good ten inches off the ground, squealing.

His eyes focused back to reality, and the royal manservant _might’ve_ squealed a second time – if only due to the crazed look in the eyes of one hunky king.

“-idiot. You ask a question and then don’t even listen to me?!” Arthur was saying, eyes somewhat glazed with exactly how _pissed_ he was. “Gods, I can’t believe I actually fell in _love_ with such a bleeding lump of a man-“

Merlin took a deep breath, trying very much to not die from heart palpitations before the age of thirty. Really, nobody could blame the warlock for _squealing_ that second time, though. Arthur really did have a deranged look about him at the momen-

“Wait. Love?” Merlin perked up immediately.

Arthur, on the other hand, froze mid gesture.  

A slow grin began to stretch across Merlin’s face.

A much faster and more intrusive blush began to spread across Arthur’s face.

Merlin moved forward a bit, causing Arthur to unconsciously take a step back.

 “Arthur,” the manservant murmured, all argument momentarily forgotten. “Did you just say you _lo_ -“

“NO. No,” Arthur said, stumbling over his words in an attempt to regain himself – giving a pathetic attempt at a snort of derision. “No, Merlin I said no such thin-“

“ _You_ said you love me!” Merlin said triumphantly, his grin becoming painfully large.

“Merlin, I am your _King_ and my word is law! And so I say that I said no-“

“Oh come off it, you bloody prat. You love me.” Merlin broke out into a series of questionable giggles which, though somewhat disconcerting in the fact that Merlin _did_ _not_ _giggle_ , nevertheless managed to bring the threat of a smile to his King’s face.

“ _Mer_ lin.”

“Yes, my lord?” Merlin said, failing to hide one last uncharacteristic chuckle.

“Shut up.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, “You know you really aren’t doing this whole ‘wooing’ thing correctly, right?”

“ _Merlin_.”

“Yes, m’lord?” Merlin said again, his grin dissolving as he remembered why he was talking to Arthur in the first place.

“ _Who_ is the King?”

“You are, m’lord.” Merlin said, with a snort. Arthur glared at him before continuing.

“And what, by definition, is the King’s word?”

“Well, by definition the King’s word is law.”

Arthur opened his mouth to continue, his point being made is quite a _smooth_ manner, if he did say so himself. He never got the chance to speak, though, for Merlin was by no means done.

“-but I really _do_ doubt the logic in that due to the fact that sometimes the King might, oh I don’t know, have too much to drink, or maybe get a bump on the head or get tackled by a nude knight, and well then who _really_ wants to follow the law of such a king? Because I really doubt that after having Gwaine’s unmentionable in such a close vicinity to your face that your judgment is _wholly_ _unskewed_ -“

“MERLIN.”

Merlin opened his mouth – then promptly closed it again after taking in the rather _purple_ complexion of his majesty.

Arthur gritted his teeth in a manner that Merlin thought wholly unwholesome and bothersome to the ear. “Now first off,” the King began, taking a shaky breath through flared nostrils. “You are _never_ to speak of what has transcended this morning.”

Merlin opened his mouth to respond cheekily, but then thought better of it, as Arthur’s face was still an unhealthy red.

“Secondly, I am not letting Gwaine out. Not only is he responsible for assaulting my persons-“

Merlin quickly covered a choked laugh with a cough. Arthur didn’t notice, as he was too busy turning back to that rather _unwholesome_ shade of purple.

“-but he has aided a prisoner, a sorcerer, hell he fucking let _Emrys_ _escape_!” Arthur’s voice cracked again as it promptly increased in volume and octave.

Merlin frowned. Arthur really was angry. Well, no matter how mad, the king wouldn’t put his beloved in the stocks…

Would he?

Well, Merlin was about to find out.

“Sire?”

“What, Merlin!” Arthur said somewhat hotly, turning to glare at the space around his manservant.

“Might I suggest the possibility that the drunkard from the tavern actually is _not_ Emrys?” The king’s brow furrowed. He’d never thought about that. “Also, I know you said that we should not speak of what happened this morning but really-“

“Merlin, I swear to the gods-“

Merlin didn’t miss a beat, determined to be heard. “- you don’t need to be so _sensitive_ about it all, I mean it’s not like you’ve never seen a pair of bollocks, before, I mean just _last_ _night_ you wer-”

“MERLIN!”

Merlin paused, hesitating. “…yes, m’lord?”

***

It was dusk by the time Merlin returned to Gaius’ tower, trailing chunks of rotten vegetables and not-so-rotten potatoes.

The warlock toed the door shut behind him, carefully avoiding the eyes (and dear gods the _eyebrows_ ) of one royal physician.

 Gaius cleared his throat.

Merlin looked up from disentangling a suspicious piece of _green_ from his hair, smile freezing on his face when he saw his guardian’s expression. Swallowing a lump, he moved to fill the suddenly suffocating silence.

“So, um… Make any interesting…. _potions_ … today?” Merlin pulled his lips back in what might’ve been mistaken for a grin - if said grin was, in fact, defined as a terrified _grimace_.

“Merlin…” Gaius’ eyebrow twitched. The warlock gulped.

“Look, I know, alright!” Merlin said, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I know I should just tell Arthur, but I _can’t_.”

“Merlin, by no means am I suggesting that.”

“No,” The manservant cut Gaius, who had taken a step forward, off. “No. You and I both know that is only the right thing to do. For all we know, if I don’t resolve this, then Arthur will get worse. Become crazed. Maybe even take after Uther…”

“My boy, I really doubt Arthur’s ability to emulate his father. For one, he has a much kinder heart.”

“Well I don’t! You saw how he was about catching Emrys _before_ this all happened. And what about his father dying at the hand of Dragoon? I just,” Merlin swallowed another dangerous lump, calming down. “I just need to tell him.” The warlock looked up at the concerned face of his mentor. “I just need to tell him that I messed up a spell-“

“Merlin, do you know what kind of trouble you could get in for casting a spell on the king?” Gaius said, somewhat alarmed. “No matter if he is Arthur or not, there are still laws! You cannot so simply admit to _sorcery_.”

Merlin rubbed the back of his neck, dislodging what appeared to be a half-eaten sandwich in the process. “I know… I just don’t know what to do.”

Gaius frowned, but moved to put a comforting hand on his ward’s shoulder, grimacing as is made a strange squelching sound upon contact. “Oh Merlin.. what have you gotten yourself into?”

Merlin snorted, not bothering to look up from the floor.

Gaius grimaced as he withdrew and wiped his hand on a spare rag. “My boy, what you need to do is not tell Arthur-“

Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but promptly closed it at the pointed look his mentor shot him.

“You need to not tell his majesty a word of this yet, if, hopefully ever. Rather I think it best that you pull out that spell, recall what it was, and find a way to remove it.”

Merlin frowned miserably. “But Gaius, he _knows_ about Emrys now! Hell, Arthur _hates_ Emrys! What’s to say the marking disappearing will make him stop hunting for sorcerers? For Emrys?”

Gaius gave Merlin a long, gauging look. Finally he moved away from his ward, towards the fire. The elder man picked up a spoon with which to stir their supper. Back turned, the physician finally spoke.

“Sometimes, my boy, we just have to have faith in fate. I do not know how Arthur will react to the spell lifting, only that the first step to repairing what you have damaged (Merlin grimaced) is making right what you have wronged.”

Merlin nodded solemnly, forgetting Gaius’ back was turned and the court physician could not actually _see_ his nod at the moment. Though of course, now that he thought about it, Merlin wouldn’t really put it past Gaius to have eyes in the back of his head.

***

Trudging up the short flight of stairs to his room after a rather quiet meal with Gaius, Merlin promptly flumped onto his rather hard mattress. When, instead of bouncing, Merlin instead was decidedly _indented_ by the offensive piece of furniture, he decided there was no ‘rather’ – that bed is damn _solid_.

Sighing, the warlock flumped (more carefully) onto his back. He needed to think about all this.

Okay. Maybe Merlin had been neglecting his duties over the last few days. Sure, he probably should’ve been working harder on finding a way to unmark Arthur – to be honest, he probably should’ve figured out what exactly he had _done_ in the first place…

Merlin frowned. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to do something about this whole... thing… It’s just Arthur had been, well, _distracting_!

Merlin’s face flushed a bit at remembering exactly how distracting his king was.

No. _No_. He would not think about that right now. No. Merlin needed to _fix_ this.

He mentally scolded himself. He needed to _focus_.

Merlin scowled as he rubbed the back of his head and successfully drew a piece of cabbage back with his hand. Really, Arthur was such a prat. One minute he loves Merlin, the next he's the Kingdom’s largest arse. Plus, if it wasn’t for his prattiness’ affections, then Merlin would’ve probably solved all this by now!

Suddenly, it dawned on him.

“Of course!” Merlin shouted (accidentally) to his (empty) room, springing up in his (rock hard slab of a) bed.

An absolutely devious grin spread across the manservant’s face. He knew exactly what to do.

***

The first rays of sunlight were just struggling over the horizon as Merlin made his way to the kitchen. Five minutes later, and the servant was in, then out, of the King’s chambers. He didn’t stop to linger or really wake up Arthur - instead opting to use a well slammed oak door as the King’s alarm.

No, Merlin had much more important things to attend to.

Mainly, Gwaine.

Merlin frowned at nothing in particular as he weaved his way through the morning wait-staff on his way to the dungeons. The hallways were becoming exceedingly cold while simultaneously receding in décor and populous.

One quick bluff later and Merlin was standing in front of the cell that housed one snoring _Gwaine_.

“Gwaine.” Merlin hissed, not wanting to raise any alarm.

He received a well-meaning snore in response.

“ _Gwaine_!” Merlin said, louder. He sent a quick _shove_ towards the knight for good measure.

Gwaine yelped as he was (magically) pushed off his pathetic excuse of a cot. The warlock grimaced. He might’ve _shoved_ a little too hard.

Blinking, it took the knight a good minute to recognize that he was, in fact, in the dungeon and was not, in fact, alone. If the way the knight’s face was slowly breaking out into an absolutely shit-eating grin was anything to go upon, then Merlin might’ve guessed he had also, in fact, just recalled the events of the previous day.

“Gwaine!” Merlin said, irritated. Luscious brown hair flipped mockingly at the warlock as Gwaine turned to see who, exactly, had awoken him.

“Ahhh Merlin! Nice to see you so chipper at, what, is it _fourth_ _notch_?” Gwaine said sarcastically, squinting at the candle that the servant had been forced to hold in order to venture into the dungeons. “Or could it possibly be as late as _fifth_?”

Merlin frowned, somewhat affronted by the very uncharacteristic sarcasm that the knight in front of him was displaying. “I’ll have you know, Gwaine, that it is past sixth, _and_ first light.”

Gwaine gave Merlin a very dry look.

Merlin dismissed it; after all, it was common knowledge that Gwaine never woke up before ninth at least, unless Camelot was aflame (which, to the warlock’s dismay, happened more often than not).

“Well, my friend, for what do I have the pleasure of this most _untimely_ visit?” Gwaine said, having taken the rude awakening and previous day’s imprisonment in stride. The knight was now sprawled over the straw covered floor, leaning against the small cot, hands behind his head. There was even a fresh piece of straw hanging from the knight’s mouth.

 _When in the hell did he pick_ that _up?_ Merlin wondered, giving a brief frown because really, that straw may _look_ fresh, but gods knew how _sanitary_ those cells really were.

“Gwaine, Arthur’s pissed.”

Gwaine snorted, a devious grin spreading across his face. “Oh really? Is that so? And why in the world would princess be pissed?”

Merlin glared daggers at the knight. “You know very well why he is angry… gods, I can’t _believe_ you!” The warlock hissed. “Really you’ve just gone and made things worse! Arthur won’t rest until Emrys is a pile of ashes, and maybe not even then!”

Gwaine’s face hardened as he sat forward. “What do you mean I’ve made things worse…  Merlin, that man was going to _burn_. We both know he was going to burn, and that he was innocent.”

“Still, you made it all the worse – at least you could’ve been stealthy!”

“Pff..” Gwaine leaned back, replacing his somewhat wilted piece of hay with a new, improved one. “I really don’t see how bad my plan was. Hell, it worked! Princess is just being all prissy.”

“Gwaine, you tackled him naked.” Merlin said dryly.

The knight shrugged nonchalantly, that shit-eating grin back on his face. “Well, I figured with a body like mine, the streaking would be distracting enough in and of itself.” The knight frowned for a moment. “Okay, maybe it would’ve been better if I hadn’t been wearing the official cape. You have to admit, though, I’m quite a sight starkers.” The grin returned full, shitty, force.

Merlin made an estranged noise, knotting his hands in his hair. “You’re absolutely –“ The manservant couldn’t even find a word to describe it.

“Dashing?” Gwaine offered politely.

“No…”

“Handsome?” The knight added thoughtfully.

“No!”

“Charming and full of good wit?”

“No! Gods, no! Gwaine, you’re an absolute _idiot_. Seriously, you’re a knight of _Camelot_ , yet you don’t know the first thing about tactical battle!”

“Well neither do you,” the knight politely pointed out, chuckling.

The look Merlin shot Gwaine actually made his piece of straw wilt a bit.

“Look. Gwaine, I have to go soon else Arthur wonders off and does something idiotic, like burn a sorcerer. All I can say is that you’re an absolute _idiot_ , and that you’re stuck down here for a while, because Arthur is absolutely _pissed_ with you.”

Gwaine frowned a little at this. “Well, I guess you’ll know where to find me, then, if anything interesting happens.” He said, pulling a lopsided grin.

Merlin snorted but grinned back. “Yeah, I guess so.” Then, a thought crossed the sorcerer’s mind.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“Huh?”

Merlin frowned. “Actually, I’m pissed at you, too.”

“What? Why?” Gwaine said, confused.

“What do you mean ‘ _why’_? The damn chicken suit, that’s why! I’m _still_ picking feathers out of my hair!”

The knight’s frown quickly smoothed out as he laughed. “Why in the world would you still be mad, mate! I got you laid.”

Merlin’s face turned an interesting shade of pink as he sputtered. “This is really not the time or place! Now goodbye!”

Gwaine was still chuckling as the warlock somewhat childishly stomped off.

Really, he didn’t need Gwaine’s, let alone a damn _chicken suit’s,_ help getting laid.

***


	8. The Real Question Is Why Does Gaius Even Have A Vat of Acid?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I'm so sorry for the late update - I managed to delete this chapter from my computer and raged and cried for a good two weeks, then finally rewrote it :P Also, I've been juggling finals, moving, graduation and two jobs, so my writing time has been a bit sparse! But nevertheless, I have updated! Hurrah! Enjoy!

Chapter 8

 

Merlin didn’t really think his plan would be so _hard_.

True, he had managed to avoid Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, for a whole four and a half hours (having manipulated George – with a knowing cough and Gaius-esque eyebrow – into attending to his majesty). But it had been a _boring_ four and half hours, and Merlin didn’t want to _complain_ or anything, but _really_ , Gaius’ stacks upon _stacks_ of books were _boring_ , and _lame_ , and totally _not_ as interesting as, oh I don’t know, sunlight, or fresh air, or Arthur’s giant di-

“Merlin, my boy, come here!”

Merlin frowned ever so slightly at his mentor’s interruption. His train of thought had just been getting _good_ –

“Merlin,” Gaius said, giving his ward a skeptical half brow lift, “I understand that these times have been trying, but really, I _know_ you're not asleep.”

Merlin frowned again, opening his eyes. Lifting his head – or well, attempting to lift his head (you see, the warlock, though a master of the art of book-sleeping, still never got used to the _angle_ that his neck would usually warp itself into whilst he slumbered, hence leaving him with a bruiser of kink) – he glared. “I wasn’t fake sleeping!”

Gaius raised an eyebrow, making Merlin cringe. Nevertheless, the warlock was feeling particularly defiant today, as well as particularly _hurt_ that Gaius would suspect his own ward of faking sleep in order to get out of stacks upon stacks of those gods forsak-

“ _Merlin_ , really, I don’t care what you were doing! Just detach that sheet of paper from your face and come look at this spell!” Gaius was frowning at Merlin, looking a bit troubled by his ward.

Merlin’s frown in the meantime deepened – if that was possible – as he peeled a piece of velum off his face. He glanced at it, a bit offended. _How did that even happen?_

Shrugging off the intimate encounter of paper and face, the warlock got up and walked over to hover above his mentor. Gaius had apparently found something pertaining to the spell Merlin had cast on Arthur. Because, well, they had… _lost_ … the original copy.

More specifically, Merlin had managed to, in what Gaius liked to call his “deeply ingrained, naturally gifted Stupid”, actually _destroy_ the paper on which the infamous ‘Emrys’ spell was written.

More specifically, Merlin had caught it alight, panicked, dunked it in what really _should_ have been water but was actually a tank of _acid_ (gods know why Gaius would need _that_ sitting out in the open), panicked further and stopped time just soon enough to salvage the lower half of the spell. But, just as the warlock decided to speed up said time, Arthur had come to the door (or more specifically, decided it was the day he would try and come _through_ the wood bit of the door instead of using a damn _handle_ like _normal_ people) in an attempt to wrangle his stray manservant, and well, really, Merlin couldn’t be blamed that in that moment he’d dropped the paper into the acid _again_ , made a very _manly_ squeak, salvaged one fourth of it, realized Arthur was _still_ at the door (or, well, maybe halfway _through_ it, from the sounds of it), and in his panic (because there had been a truly miraculously abundant potato harvest recently) thrown the paper out the window and then promptly followed it. _That_ had only managed to leave the manservant with a sprained ankle, and _furthermore_ , he _still_ managed to lose the rest of the spell to a suspiciously _dungy_ puddle of mud.

And so now if there was ever any hope of lifting the mark from Arthur, it would be in the form of a copy of the spell…

…Which Merlin _really_ doubted existed.

Nevertheless, the warlock, being the brave, courageous soul he was, would persevere in the face of almost certain failure, attempting to lift a spell that, for all the good it did, would nevertheless leave the country in at best _ruins_ –

“Merlin!”

Merlin made another one of those special breed of squeaks, jumping about a foot in the air. “Gaius! Don’t startle me like that!”

Gaius was glaring at his ward, obviously affronted. “Well, then don’t get all far-off and pious like that.”

Merlin shot his mentor a sour look that probably could’ve turned water into mead (much to Gwaine’s probable delight), but nevertheless turned to once again listen as the old man repeated what he’d said.

“As I was saying… I believe this might be the spell you cast. It is a protection ward, but also built from very powerful, underlying magic. It not only makes the subject as immune to petty magic as the caster, but it leaves an everlasting twining of their souls.”

Merlin felt a quite frankly _unpleasant_ weight growing at the pit of his stomach. He momentarily wondered if maybe he was catching an ailment, but then thought better of asking Gaius for an examination, let alone one of his _delicious_ (and by delicious, Merlin meant surprisingly _piss_ flavored) tonics, while the older man was still annoyed with him. Finally, the warlock decided the unpleasant weight gain was related to _fear_ , and instead moved on to more important things: such as validating said fear. “Twining of souls – Gaius, this can’t be the spell… I – I don’t think –“

But Gaius turned to his ward, his face solemn. “Merlin, I believe you should have a look at this spell. I believe that you _have bonded your soul to Arthur_.”

And really, it all went downhill from there.

 

***

 

“MERLIN!”

“MERRRRLIN!”

“ _MERRRRLINNNNNNNNNNN_!!”

“It won’t be long now.” Leon murmured to Sir Kay, watching as Arthur barged into the ninth tavern within four hours.

“ _MERLIN_ I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING THAT IS _HOLY_ -“

Sir Kay gave a slight grimace as Arthur reemerged from the tavern, fruitless, save for some bewildered looks, and turned to go deeper into the heart of Camelot’s outer town. “Do you think that maybe we should… I don’t know, rein his majesty in?”

Leon snorted, stroking his facial hair in contemplation. In the distance, there was a faint call of “MERLIN, YOU BLEEDING DRUNKARD, WHEN I BLEEDING FIND YOU, I AM GOING TO PUT YOU REHAB AND THEN THE BLEEDING STOCKS AND TH-“, carried on the wind. Leon nodded his head, as though he were within a deep conversation with himself. Finally, he turned to his fellow knight.

“I think it would probably be best if we just leave this to run its natural course.”

Sir Kay, being a freshly knighted knight, gaped (though very knightly, of course) at the ease with which the King’s second in command was taking what could be considered an _emotional meltdown_ from the King. Of Camelot. The ruler. Who made decisions. And was now running around lower Camelot screaming. Excessively.

He commented on as much, making Leon chuckle – his eyes never leaving the crowned figure currently weaving its way through the midday market crowd. “Emotional meltdown? Nah. This is the usual routine…” Leon frowned a bit, decidedly stroking his facial hair with a new vigor. “Actually, I would go as far as to hazard that these last few days have been uncommonly _quiet_ …”

Sir Kay thought to ask why, but then suddenly had a vivid recollection of a particularly pale, clammy looking mouse of a manservant – George, if the knight remembered – leaving the King’s chambers, claiming ailment. And also a particularly _nude_ (save, of course, for the Camelot reds) Sir Gwaine tackling a not _as_ particularly nude King and his similarly unclad manserv-

 _Ohhhhh_.

Sir Kay colored a bit at this realization, but thought wiser than to question it. Instead, he turned back to watch his King, who was now stomping back towards to two knights, his face – surprisingly and somewhat impressively – matching his cape.

Sir Kay couldn’t possibly fathom what ‘Merlin’ (as he had concluded to be the name of his Majesty’s query) could’ve done to make the King so angry, but whatever it was, Kay could only have pity for the man.

For really, as the new knight was beginning to discover, there was no wrath like that of an Arthur Pendragon scorned.

 

***

 

Merlin shivered a bit, feeling as though someone had walked over his grave. Or, well, more specifically, as though _someone_ was currently _digging_ his grave after visiting every last tavern within Camelot’s walls in order to drag him to rehab, the stocks, _then_ said grave.

Merlin was beginning to really scare himself with these premonitions.

Shaking off the feeling as though Arthur was surpassing his Kingly duties in favor of cussing him out, Merlin sat, leg jiggling, watching impatiently was Gaius read through the text that accompanied _The_ Spell.

(For, much to Merlin’s embarrassment, the soul bond had, indeed, been _The_ Spell. After the young ward had confirmed that he had, indeed, cast said spell upon the King of Camelot, Gaius had gone to great lengths in explaining exactly how morally wrong, dangerous, and downright _rude_ it was to not only cast a soul bond upon an unsuspecting bloke, but upon Arthur _Pendragon_ , King of Camelot.

Merlin had tried to wriggle his way out of the old man’s lecture at about the third hour by claiming ignorance to the full extent of the spell, which only managed to lead Gaius into a _second_ lecture on the benefits of _fine print_ and the hazards of being a lazy reader, and how if only Merlin was more _careful_ , then really none of this would’ve happened.

By the end of it all, Merlin was pretty sure his mentor should’ve become a preacher, or maybe a lawyer, _gods_ , with the way he talked.)

Nevertheless, it had finally pattered off to Gaius reading up on how, exactly, to _break_ a soul bond.

“Ah.”

Merlin looked up, impatient, to where Gaius was sitting.

“Ah?” The warlock echoed back.

“Ah…” Gaius frowned at the velum.

It was never good when Gaius frowned at the velum.

“Gaius?” Merlin fought the urge to gulp, not sure if he wanted to hear his mentor’s answer.

“Merlin, my boy, you are a _fool_!” Gaius burst out, look up at his ward. “Do you know the extent of what you have done?!”

Merlin raised his eyebrows, because he did, in fact, _not_ know the extent of what he had done. “…No?”

Gaius huffed, and tutted, and shook his head. “Merlin, this is old magic you have meddled with. _Powerful_ magic. Magic that can only be broken by a deity of the old religion!”

Merlin really did gulp this time, tactically avoiding eye contact with Gaius’ eyebrows by instead appraising anything and everything else in the room. “Um...”

Gaius shook his head, marking his place in the book. “You do realize I have to tell Arthur of this. The bond cannot be broken without his participation.”

Merlin gulp again, struggling to breath past the lump in his throat. “Er… Yeah…?” Really, since when did Merlin had a bleeding _log_ clogging his airways? It was _uncomfortable_!

Gaius paused, giving Merlin an appraising, pitying look. “My boy, I have a feeling you are in for a long journey. You and Arthur must go to the Isle of the Blessed if you ever hope to break this enchantment. Even then it may not work, for you must summon the god Celerion – a man who myth says is at best tricky, and at worst downright devious.

“So I think it best if you go now and face his Majesty’s wrath.” Merlin opened his mouth to protest, but Gaius raised a warning brow.

Merlin immediately backed down.

The old man continued.

“As I was _saying_ , it would be best that you face Arthur _before_ he finds exactly what has _happened_ to his persons.”

Merlin paled a bit at this. Oh, Arthur was going to be _pissed_.

Gaius gave Merlin one last, pointed, eyebrow-fueled look before he got up and began to busy himself with the evening tinctures.

Feeling as though his persons had just been assaulted by an eyebrow, and not a little bit nauseous to boot, Merlin finally got up from the Physician’s bench to go find His Royal Prattiness.

 

***

 

As expected, (and dreaded), His Royal Prattiness was easily found beating the living _snot_ out of a particularly pitiful batch of new Knight Wannabes.

Merlin openly winced as the most recent prospect’s arse found its way to the ground after a particularly _sadistic_ blow from a hauntingly _familiar_ mace.

The warlock cringed, backing up a bit as he realized that maybe he shouldn’t be showing up while Arthur was in such a foul mood, and further more _armed_ with things that were hard, deadly, and particularly _pointy_.

After all, it just wouldn’t _do_ to have an injured persons while traveling long distances to meet strange deities. It was only _logical_ , after all.

But just as the manservant had made it from surprisingly near Arthur to the edge of the training fields, he heard a shout. Or more specifically, a kingly _wail_.

“Merlin YOU _BLEEDING_ RASCAL!”

_OH my._

Merlin decided, in a split second, lifesaving decision, to _run_.

_And dear lords if Arthur didn’t just once in his lifetime give up a chase!_

But really, when it came to Arthur, nothing could ever be so _simple_.

 

***

 

And so that was how, late that evening, Gaius was greeted at supper not by Merlin, but His Majesty, King of Camelot, wielding a mace and grumbling about idiotic servants and taverns and alcoholism and imminent and certain _death_.

“…Sire?”

Arthur started, glaring at his Physician until he realized said Physician could _glare back_.

Gulping at the sight of a certain eyebrow twitching, Arthur took a calming breath. “Gaius.” He said curtly. “Where, pray tell, is _Merlin_?”

“Merlin, sire?”

“Merlin.” Arthur ground out, looking for all the world as though he was about to have a severe _conniption_.

“Merlin… Why, I thought he was with you.”

Arthur reddened a bit more at this, scowling in a manner that made him look somewhat constipated. “He most definitely is _not_.”

And with that, the king growled to himself and moved to leave.

Realizing that though his ward tended to show a tendency towards the immensely _stupid_ , Merlin did not, in fact, deserve a slow death at his lover’s hand, Gaius called out Arthur’s name.

“Arthur, sire, I have found out something…”

The king stopped in the doorway. Then, Arthur turned around, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “What do you mean, Gaius? I thought you said Merlin wasn’t here.”

“I – what? No, Sire, not Merlin. I mean about the mark. I have found something about the mark of Emrys!”

Arthur’s second eyebrow immediately rose to join the first. The king moved to sit down quickly, menservants and lovers and Gwaine’s bollocks (because really, Arthur couldn’t unsee those in any less than a _fortnight_ ) all but forgotten. “Gaius, what have you found?”

Gaius sighed, nevertheless easing his body down across from his King.

“Well, sire… I have found a way to break the spell, though I fear the full extent of the marking...”

Arthur had leaned forward, hanging off Gaius’ every word. Finally, he would be getting some answers. “Gaius, tell me, what is it?”

Gaius took a deep breath, regretting not a little bit that Arthur would probably end up raging in his chambers where there were fragile things, (such as a certain vat of _acid_ ), instead of his own Kingly chambers.

Well, whatever happened, Gaius would make Merlin clean it up. After all, this was all _his_ fault. _The idiot._

_Well, no reason in putting it off any longer._

So, the Physician began:

“Sire, I fear as though you have been bonded...”

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahaha so the plot thickens! Any and all feedback is loved dearly! Also, if you want to see anything in this story or another, just leave it in the comments!


	9. King of Poetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo! Alas, so I have finally updated! Ah yeah that was a crazy ride... Also, if anyone cares, I am finally in Georgia! yay for moving! (seriously tho, moving is so painful. 1/10 would not recommend.)
> 
> Yea anywho. Still unbetaed. Still shitty. But nevertheless I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

 

Merlin decided that he didn’t particularly _like_ adventures, let alone that there was any particular ‘thrill’ of said adventure to be found. Rather, Merlin concluded that he strongly _disliked_ adventures, and all the bells and whistles that tended to accompany them.

Too bad that Merlin made said decision approximately two and a half days into one of just _such_ said adventures – and was becoming very sour because of it.

Arthur, on the other hand, had no real opinion on adventures, given the fact that he was too preoccupied muttering obscenities about certain Emryses and manservants while flicking dirt into the fire to realize he was currently _on_ an adventure.

“Arthur.”

There was murmuring, but no sign of acknowledgement.

“Arthur.”

Still, nothing.

“Arth _u_ r.”

“ _Arthur_.”

Merlin punctuated his King’s name with a well meaning handful of dirt, aimed (with a little bit of magical fuel) for a certain crown of golden hair. There was a firm, resounding _thump_ from across the fire.

“Augh! Yuck! _Mer_ lin, what the hell?! Is that _dirt_?”

“Sorry, your majesty. I was aiming for the fire.” Merlin looked moderately unapologetic. Actually, his expression reflected something quite the _opposite_ of regret.

Merlin looked a bit smug, actually.

“I – wait. What? _Mer_ lin, why would you throw _dirt_ on the _fire_? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You don’t even make sense!” Merlin yelled back, petulantly.  Then, in a fit of hormonal, guilt-fueled rage, the warlock ran into the woods.

Arthur blinked a couple times, a bit owlish in his actions, while trying to process why in the hell his manservant was acting like a hormonal _git_. It was almost as though Merlin were jealous of somethi-

Arthur sat up, throwing up a puff of dirt in his haste.

That’s it! Merlin, the silly bugger, was _jealous_ of _Emrys_.

Arthur choked out a laugh. That’s why he’d been avoiding Arthur so much… because he was jealous of a bleeding _sorcerer_! The King would’ve cackled at the realization if not for the fact that it wasn’t very kingly to cackle. Really, Merlin was so easy to read… The poor sod couldn’t keep a secret for the life of him.

Nevertheless, realization in hand, Arthur decided he had nothing better to do than abandon their campfire (which, though it was fun to continually pummel it with dirt, nevertheless left him feeling somewhat hollow) in search of his wayward servant.

He would get their relationship straightened out in no time.

***

Arthur didn’t get their relationship straightened out.

Rather, Arthur managed to do something quite nearly the _opposite_ of ‘straightened out’.

Actually, if Gwaine were here, he would call Arthur’s previous actions something along the lines of managing to ‘cock, block and sock the whole mess up to Sunday and back’. Then he would probably wink, flip his hair, and blow a kiss.

Arthur frowned. Why was he thinking about what Gwaine would do? Really, what about what… _Leon_ would do? Isn't that more reasonable?

Probably stroke his beard a bit and look noble. Swing his sword. Pet a horse…

A resounding HUMPH echoed across the clearing in which King and manservant were currently camped for the night, drawing Arthur out of his Knightly reveries.

Merlin wasn’t looking at him, but the _pissed off-ness_ nevertheless emitted - nay, _radiated_ \- from him like a bad smell, or maybe Gwaine’s sex drive….

Arthur really needed to stop it with the whole Gwaine thing. Maybe he should talk to Gaius about it…

Then again, Gaius had a Way with that eyebrow, and Arthur had a sinking feeling that said Way would be put to good use if he used the Court Physician in such a flippant manner as to _vent_ … Though of course Arthur’s _psyche_ was technically being put to harm from all this Gwaine-ness…

The king trailed off, lost in thought.

***

As Arthur caught yet another pouty pout of a pout from his manservant who was, of current, hunched with his arms crossed and his face - you guessed it - _pouting_ across the fire, the King finally decided that _something_ must be done. And quickly. If he were going to be perfectly frank, his tender, royal libido depended on it. And quite probably Merlin's, too. (Though of course Arthur has found out the hard way that his manservant, in his own right did have a tendency to be a bit of a kinky old _prude_. Damn him.)

 

Well, whatever the case, Arthur decided he needed to put a stop to the insufferable pouting before he - the king - becomes driven to the point of Sexual Insanity. Which now that he thought about it, seemed a bit odd, because really what would be sexually insane? Maybe if he started acting a bit more loosely... A bit more like a certain bed hopping, pant dropping, bum grabbing, dress nabbing, fancy haired (soon to be ex) _knight_ of his...

 

A shiver wracked Arthur's form. He would have to discuss with Gaius, at a later date, the possibility of such a thing as Sexual Insanity, and if a certain _someone_ could possibly have a rivetingly serious case of it...

 

Shaking his head, the King of Camelot brought himself from his musings. These were thoughts for a later date. Right now, he had more pressing problems at hand.

 

More specifically, the problem of a certain _manservant_.

 

Alright, so maybe Arthur had overreacted a bit. But really, that was a bit of a given when it came to dealing with Merlin. Seriously, the man was a drama queen at best, never mind when he didn't get his _napsies_ \- !

 

Shaking his head with a new vigor, Arthur dared another glance at his lover -

 

And immediately flinched, because seriously... Since when did Merlin learn to  _burn_ things with his eyes!

 

Oh gods... He's getting pointers from Gaius, isn't he??

 

Arthur shoved his fingers into his eyes. The last thing he needed were _four_ eyebrows haunting him day and night.... Gods, what a mood killer. Arthur might actually have to shave Merlin's eyebrows if he began to mimic Gaius in earnest...

 

Would the terrors never cease?

 

Huffing out a sigh, Arthur slumped back against the log that he was, in fact, currently slumped back against. Slumping back further actually ended up having an enormously surprisingly _lack_ of effect, (due to the fact that he was already _slumped_ ). Nevertheless, the sheer thought of slumping further into a log brought a sort of simplistic comfort to Arthur, and so therefore he slumped once more, with a newfound vigor.

 

After all, maybe if he slumped enough he could avoid Merlin's, quite frankly, _scalding_ glare.

 

Arthur slumped a bit more. Then blinked. Then cringed, because Merlin, in fact, was still burning holes in His Majesty with his eyes.

 

. _..this needs to stop, now._

_Think, think..._

 

And so, after donning a bit of a sterner look and squaring his shoulder (as much as a man currently slumped against a log could), Arthur decided he would put years of the finest tutoring in all the land to good use. For he had a problem to solve... The problem of: _Merlin_.

 

Or, more specifically, Cheering Merlin Up.

 

Squinting, Arthur realized (with a slight, yet nevertheless regal joy) that this whole endeavor technically could be considered an Operation.

 

Oh he did _love_ Operations.

 

So, with a bit of a smirk and a further (failed) attempt at squared shoulders, Arthur began to formulate, with his superior, kingly mind:

 

Pause for effect...

 

Operation Cheering Merlin (The Ungrateful Bugger) Up.

This was going to be easy.

 

(Twelve minutes later)

 

Arthur decided, after the seventh obnoxiously loud "Hurrump" and third stray pebble that just so happened to find it's way _into_ (yes, _INTO_ ) his face that Operation Cheering Merlin Up might just be a bit too _nice_ , and that maybe he _should_ instead put into action his increasingly more reasonable _backup_ Operation: Operation Merlin Is A Bastard, Let's Tie Him To The Damn Horse (Poor Git) And See How He Likes Loud Hurrumps And Peebles In The Face, Because I'm Most Definitely Not An Ass And A Constitutional Monarchy Is Just Bleeding Absurd _So Shut Up About It Already_!

 

But, alas, after a few moments of contemplative thoughts and a reflection on the _actual_ motives driving said backup operation, Arthur vetoed his backup operation. For, after all, he did like to believe himself a fair and just king, and even though Merlin really was asking for it (because YES Arthur was not DEAF and _YES_ he knew what a _crowned republic_ was and really the mere idea is absurd so _why are we even discussing it?_!), it just didn't seem right to try and woo the man by tying him to a horse.

 

Plus, it would really be _rude_ to said horse to have to leave a grumpy Merlin in it's vicinity, let alone on it's _back_ , why - Arthur wouldn't wish a grumpy Merlin on even his cruelest enemy, because by the gods did that man know how to be passive aggressive - !

 

No, it was rather _rude_ to tie one's love to horses twice in one week. Rather, Arthur would use his brilliant intellect to come up with... Something...

 

He would come up with something.

 

Not daring another glance across the fire because he liked his persons just the way they were (and not burnt by Glares, thank you very _much_ ), Arthur instead chose to make himself comfortable on the log he had become so friendly with, and promptly go to sleep. He woke up once in the middle of the night to a mouth full of pebbles and a burnt down fire and Merlin muttering something along the lines of 'you don't snore as loudly with the pebbles' - but, being a bit sleepy and a tad bit lazy, just promptly turned on his side, spit out said mouthful of rocks, and went back to sleep.

 

***

 

The next day Arthur awoke feeling particularly rejuvenated (if not a bit stale-mouthed, for some odd reason). After all, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Merlin looked less like the bastard lovechild of Medusa and Morgana and more like a functioning member of society.

 

And, if that wasn't glorious enough, Arthur also just so _happened_ to have come up with a solution to Operation Cheering Merlin Up. A solution that, the king was pleased to say, he was brilliant enough to think up in his sleep. (A feat that, according to Gaius, was relatively common and derived from _dreaming_ , but which Arthur considered to be more closely linked to inherent regal _brilliance_. To each their own, he supposed.)

 

The solution was....

 

Brilliant, _yes_. Amazing, _of course._ The product of Arthur's outstanding intellect... _Well obviously._

 

Yes, the solution was:

 

 _Poetry_.

 

What Merlin needs is some good old fashion wooing. More specifically poetry, because all other methods of traditional courting aren't exactly _obtainable_ three days ride out from all forms of advanced civilization (because really, that delusional old _wench_ half a day past did _not_ count as civilized. She used her own urine as a spice for gods sake!). Frowning, Arthur remembered exactly how much _enjoyment_ Merlin experienced when his King was enlightened to said _culinary secret..._.

 

Arthur's frown deepened. The backup Operation was sounding more and more reasonable by the minute.

 

He shook his head. No need to be hasty. Anywho, this would be easy.

 

After all, Arthur was infamously known to be a glorious poet, on top of being the best warrior in the land. Actually, once he - in his princeling years -had sent his poetry tutor out of the room, sobbing, from the sheer _superiority_ of his youthful prose.

 

Arthur smiled and sighed wistfully at the memory. That specific tutor had vehemently refused, even on pain of certain heinous death, to return into Uther's employment due to how _superb_ and _moving_ Arthur's poetic abilities were. Some people just couldn't deal with their emotions (jealousy) as well as others.

 

Too bad.

 

But nevertheless, of course this would be a piece of cake.

 

Now all Arthur needed was a little bit of old fashioned _inspiration_. So, shoving himself up from where he'd been sitting, Arthur went in search of it. Or, more specifically...

 

" _MER_ LIN!"

 

***

 

Merlin decided that he didn't particularly _like_ being a 'muse' (as Arthur had put it), nor did he particularly _enjoy_ all the efforts that being said muse entailed.

 

Or, more specifically, the lack thereof of efforts. Because, as of midday, he had done nowhere near anything, due to the fact that His Royal Assness decreed Merlin could do nothing less than _sit on a damned log_ for six hours straight.

 

"For inspiration, my _love_... for inspiration."

 

Merlin found that there were a couple things wrong with that statement in general. First off, Arthur's far off look. It took on a form suspiciously similar to that of a star crossed lover and was wholly _wrong_ being on someone who was as prone to sneering and smirking as _Arthur Pendragon_. Secondly, being called ‘my love’ by Arthur was probably more threatening than the stake, than Morgana on a bad hair day, than.. than…

 

Why the hell was Arthur calling him his love, anyway?

 

Merlin huffed out a sigh, irritated. Because really. How could he be bleeding _inspiration_ if Arthur _wasn’t even in a twenty meter radius of him_!

 

Merlin momentarily contemplated the repercussions of setting His Majesty’s travel bags (which were lying conveniently close to the campfire) ablaze.

It was sorely tempting.

But, just as the young warlock was testing exactly how warm he could make His Majesty’s bedding before it began to smoke, there was a series of resounding crashes, snaps and loud _“GODS DAMMIT!_ ”.

Ah, so Arthur was back from… wherever he’d been.

Said Arthur jumped up, straightening his outfit and brushing spare leaves from his persons.

Merlin glared at him, wondering exactly how warm he could make His Majesty before it became a health hazard.

The King seemed unfazed by his lover’s glare, though, as he smiled and began to cross the clearing.

“Merlin, my love. How nice to see you on such a fine summer’s day.”

“Eh? Say what?” Merlin made a face that almost, but not quite, equated that of a man just waking up from a series of binge drinking sessions with a certain familiar knight.

“You heard me, love,” Arthur’s smile was dazzling, and if Merlin wasn’t so confused (and also grumpy, due to the lack of sensory response in his left leg from sitting for so long) he probably would’ve found it romantic.”I am genuinely delighted to see you today.”

Arthur proceeded to kneel on one knee in front of where Merlin was still awkwardly perched on a log. “I – er – ok, Arthur, are you feeling ok? Happen to encounter any sorcerers lately? Because really, you're acting like you're under a damn enchantment again –“

Arthur cut Merlin off by firmly clamping one fist over his lover’s mouth, while taking the warlock’s hands into his other. He was still kneeling. Merlin licked his palm. Arthur wasn’t even fazed.

There was very much something _wrong_ with His Highness.

“Oh _Mer_ lin, you absolute fool. The only enchantment I am under is your own.” And really, if Merlin vomited a bit in his mouth, who could blame him? Because not only was Arthur absolutely _wretched_ at this whole wooing thing, but he also managed to dredge up a _week’s_ worth of guilt in one sentence.

“Mph mphfph mphfggh.”

“Shh, love. I know, you're not a sorcerer – only an earthly temptress.” Arthur smiled again, tightening his grip on Merlin’s mouth in a moderately _threatening_ manner.

Nevertheless, the warlock never did have the sensibility to retreat from danger. So instead, he replied skeptically. “Mph temphtrephs? Mreallphy?”

Arthur shot him a glare. “Yes, really, _Mer_ lin. Now shut up. I wrote you some poetry.”

Ah. Poetry.

It was still news to Merlin that Arthur had the capability to _write_. Merlin struggled, though, because any composition from the King could only end horribly and probably with certain _death_. But then Arthur promptly sat on his manservant, bringing any hopes of escape to an abrupt and bitter end.

But before the warlock could even begin to fathom whatever made Arthur think using his brain in such a strenuous manner as to _compose_ , the King began his prose:

 

“To the lass who has a crimson smile,

And rosey cheeks so red,

If only you could bear a child,

'Twould be you who I would wed.

 

But alas your sweet ass,

Will (once deflowered) bear no fleshly fruit,

So maybe for now cut the sass,

And instead let's just make one from two."

 

Arthur frowned, looking down at his manservant. The younger man’s face was screwed up in a manner that, if Arthur didn’t know better, entailed that he was experiencing strong emotions.

He took that as a good sign, and continued.

 

“At my mother's death I began my training,

In the arts of mortal blows,

Yet 'twas you who forever stopped retaining,

All contempt for how I (knife) throw.

 

I beat the shit out of your little twink ass,

Yet still you came not asunder -

And so to you I will tip my hat,

Because my mace-blows send most under.”

 

At this, Merlin made a sound that Arthur took a little _less_ as encouraging and a little more as insulted and moderately _terrified_.

 

So it wasn’t working? From the way Merlin’s face was turning a bright, shiny red, Arthur suspected that it might not be the case. But poetry always worked! Why in the hell wasn’t it working?! He’d spent all morning on it!

 

Suddenly, a thought struck the King. Maybe Merlin was just too much of a _commoner_ to comprehend true poetry. Maybe he needed something a bit _stronger_. Toned down. More with the jive of the common folk nowadays. Something someone as lowly and inbred as even Merlin could comprehend…

 

He would need to improvise.

 

Ignoring the weakening sounds of protest from the man he was slowing smashing the air out of, Arthur cracked his neck, then began to free-form.

 

“Oh Merlin you little sprite

Your boney arse is such a sight

Without your stupidity you'd be alright

Would you let me tap dat again tonight?”

 

Hmm. Merlin was turning a particularly endearing shade of purple at that verse… Arthur quickly considered his options, then continued.

 

“As Gwaine is to drink I am to your arse,

An alcoholic for asshole am I -

Yet nevertheless I am not,

quite wont to drop,

The farce that I don't need your thighs.”

 

At this, Merlin looked almost fully sedated (if by sedated you meant purple-face, wholly _scandalized_ and bug-eyed). Arthur took this as a wonderful sign and promptly lifted his hand from the manservant’s mouth.

 

And quickly regretted it.

“ _ARTHUR PENDRAGON_ I SWEAR _TO_ –“

 

***

 

Meanwhile, a day and a half’s ride away, an old hermit roused from his sleep. Sensing that his powers would soon again be needed, he shook the dust from his persons and awoke, with a gentle, pulsating touch, his encampment – and the forests surrounding it.

 

For soon enough, he would be meeting Emrys.

 

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow ok so I had fun w the poetry. I mean, it wasn't that funny, but I still had fun.
> 
> Did I mention I love you all? Like, yall are the best ever. I could never hope for so many wonderful people to read, let alone actually like, my fic. But, lo and behold here you are!
> 
> Seriously, I love you all and hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> -Until next time!-


	10. Oops, Emrys Did It Again: Pt I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. This is such a filler chapter. :P

 

Arthur was beginning to get a bit of a Feeling.

As it was, Merlin tended to disregard Arthur’s ‘Feelings’ when they happened because they usually were suspiciously in sync with the King’s _hormonal_ _cycle_ (a theory that Merlin was most adamant to believe was an actual, tangible aspect of Arthur’s physical persons, though which Arthur considered to be a load of hogwash and tended to slap his manservant upside the head for bringing up). But Arthur had taken Merlin’s input into consideration a while back and had decidedly then decided that his Feelings were more due to his prestigious abilities as a hunter, tracker, statesman and born killer than any petty matter such as _hormones_ –

That was irrelevant though, because even if his Feelings _were_ related to hormones (which they were _not_ ) Arthur was still king and his law was _law,_ not Merlin’s scientifically based _speculations_. So there. Now where was he?

Ah yes, that _Feeling_.

The Feeling Arthur was feeling.

The Feeling that they were being followed.

Though Arthur was a superb tracker, it actually wasn’t his honed senses that were alerting the King to said Feeling. Rather, it had something to do with the fact that this was the third time in as many days that the pair had, in fact, run into a certain hermit. And, though Merlin seemed to believe it to be sheer luck and the amalgamation of the universe’s infinite possibilities that kept having their and the spry old man’s paths cross, Arthur tended to adhere to a more cynical (and _reasonable_ , by the gods) line of reasoning that they were, in fact, being _bloody followed_.

…By a crispy _sack_ of an _old man_ , no less!

Though of course Merlin whole-heartedly disagreed with his King’s Feeling, and blamed it on some absurd theory about how Arthur was on some masculine menstrual cycle leading him to bouts of hysteria and emotional dystrophy (whatever the hell that was – Arthur secretly suspected it to be some made up terminology pulled from a certain manservant’s pert little assho-)

“ _Arthur_!”

Mentioned Arthur was wretched from his brewing just in time to see a clump of dirt heading towards a rendezvous point that was suspiciously close to his head.

 _Thump_.

Correction: a rendezvous point that _was_ , in fact, his head.

Arthur’s face relaxed into a terrifyingly placid look as he turned to his manservant.

“And what, pray-tell, was _that_ , _Mer_ lin?” He said, his voice calm, though _rather bone-chilling_. Merlin had enough sense to deflate a bit, his gulp visible even from across the space separating their horses.

“Um, I was just…” Merlin trailed off, giving a nervous smile.

Arthur raised his eyebrow dangerously, dislodging a surprisingly supple amount of dirt in the process. Then something occurred to him. “Wait a minute. Were you holding onto a handful of dirt for the last three hours?”

Merlin at least had the good grace to look a bit flustered, and carefully avoided eye contact as he replied, “Um. No? Okay, maybe.” The manservant flushed. As did Arthur. Vaguely, though, Arthur suspected that they had rather differing reasons for flushing – one rooted more in fear, while the other in the overpoweringly primal urge to _kill_.

But alas, the king did not let this urge overtake him (because as a king he had to look past his primal urges, no matter how accurate and soundly rooted they were) and instead turned to glare at his manservant. Then, he had a realization.

“Wait. So you mean you’ve been planning on throwing a handful of _dirt_ at me since _this morning_?” Arthur had a rather incredulous (if not still regal) look on his face. Merlin thought the look was rather liken to that of a blind, deaf _leper_ trying to partake in a particularly challenging round of _charades_ , though also idly thought it to be quite befitting on Arthur.

Arthur, on the other hand, thought that death by strangulation would be quite befitting for his manservant.

Though of course, lucky for Merlin, he was rather comfortable on his horse at the moment (thank you very much) and couldn’t be arsed enough to go into the effort of premeditated manslaughter. (Or should he say _manservant_ slaughter. Hah. Hah. Oh man, Arthur really did wonder where he got his great sense of humor. It must be from Ygraine. Uther never did appreciate his son’s input on such fronts. Whatever the lineage, though, Arthur decided that in his waning years he needed to dedicate some time to penning a book. It would be a comedy, obviously. That would be his legacy: Arthur the Good-humored. Of course, Merlin would be the one to actually _pen_ it, so of course Arthur would have to -)

Another clump of dirt unceremoniously made its acquaintance with a certain King’s face.

“ _Merlin_!” Arthur yelled, despite the fact that he and his manservant were actually quite close together. Merlin considered this quite rude, and rather uncalled for (after all it was only _dirt_ , and it was in fact being put to use for a just cause), and rolled his eyes.

“Yes, sire?” He said, his eyes bugging out in a manner that Arthur assumed was meant to mimic innocence. The King snorted, involuntarily.

“Merlin, I am this close to stopping this horse and making you _eat_ dirt. Now tell me whatever aimless prattle you have to say, or forever hold your peace.”

Merlin pursed his lips at the rather odd (and not to mention, hello, _rude_ ) threat. “Well, _sire_ , I was just wondering if you had happened to notice if that rock back there was rather _familiar_?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. So Merlin had finally caught on. _Said_ Merlin was being rather _rude_ , though, so therefore a said _Arthur_ decided he was going to be rather rude in _turn_. “Oh really, _Mer_ lin? Since when does your brilliant intellect pick up on _rocks_ , anyway?”

Merlin sputtered a bit at this, his face turning a familiar shade of pink. “I – but we’ve passed that rock seven times already! Don’t tell me you’ve bumped your head –“

“ _Merlin_.” Arthur cut in warningly. Though of course Merlin wasn’t listening, and continued to prattle on.

“- that would explain all that horrible poetry, though.”  The manservant ended, thoughtfully.

At this, Arthur actually turned in his saddle to send his manservant a very concerned look. It appeared that the love of his life was actually less cultured than expected, and probably also suffering from mild _brain trauma_.

With a sigh, Arthur turned around. So the same as usual.

With the finality of a man put upon by the world, Arthur sighed once more, with more vivacity, and said, “Nine times, actually.”

“Eh?” Merlin said, making a face liken to someone who had just been pulled from fantasizing about a rather pert (yet firm) bum that just so happened to be bobbling up and down on a saddle approximately 1.4 meters in front of him (though of course Merlin wasn’t _measuring_ that or anything, _pfff_ ).

Arthur gave another put upon sigh, having not noticed his manservant’s careful attentions and instead only hearing the usual drabble of inane stupidity coming from his mouth. “Nine times, _Mer_ lin. We’ve actually passed that particular rock nine times.”

Merlin sputtered at this, suddenly finding it rather hard to stay upright in his saddle. “What?!”

Arthur sighed again, expressing his sorrows for his hopeless manservant, who obviously not only was unable to comprehend poetry, but also apparently could not, in fact, count past _seven_.

“I know, a tragedy, really.”

“Eh?” Merlin said, thrown through yet another loop.

“I was saying, it’s a tragedy that you can’t count past seven.” Arthur clarified, the sorrow and pity for his wholly uneducated manservant edging his voice, making it rough with unshed tears. Really, the peoples of Lot’s kingdom must suffer immensely from their under-education.

“Eh? What? I can count past seven. What the hell, Arthur?”

Arthur ignored Merlin’s plight – obviously the man was getting defensive. After all, being unable to count was a pretty embarrassing situation. Arthur decided to tuck this information away for a later date and instead changed the subject back to something important. I.e., his Feeling.

“As I was saying, Merlin, we’ve passed that rock before.”

Merlin frowned at this. “Um. Why?”

Arthur raised his eyebrows at this. Ah, it truly was a pity that Merlin had never had a proper education, considering how he was so oft thirsty and yearning to drink from the chalice of knowledge. With a forlorn sigh, the King replied, “Oh Merlin, I understand completely. You can always ask me anything.”

Merlin’s frown deepened as he began to register a faint sense of concern at the sheer level of patronization in his ruler’s voice. “Um, okay. Well, then I guess I’ll ask, once again for your obviously shite-worth hearing, why in the _hell_ we have spent the last _three hours_ going in bloody _circles_?!”

Arthur made a mild humming noise, busy scanning the forest for any further signs of being followed. “You wouldn’t understand. Big military things, and all that.”

Merlin glared at the back of a certain royalty’s head in a manner that, quite frankly, could probably burn holes through relatively unburnable things like – oh, say, _rocks_. 

Arthur, though, was still scanning his surroundings, and therefore oblivious to the current eye-based peril he was in. After a moment more of contemplating setting Arthur on fire, Merlin finally responded, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“Try me.”

Arthur hummed again. “Oh, it’s nothing really,”

“Really.” Merlin echoed, dryly.

Arthur continued as though he hadn’t, in fact, just been interrupted. “If you must know, I am currently using methods of aversion.”

Merlin squinted. “Methods of aversion?”

Arthur nodded. “Yes. It’s all very complicated, though and you –“

“So you're saying going in circles is meant to stop people from following us?” Merlin squinted further, really beginning to question his king’s sanity. Then realization dawned on him. “You think we’re being followed by that bloody hermit, don’t you?!” He accused.

“No. Okay, yes.” Arthur turned to glare at his manservant. “Really, I don’t see why you don’t trust my Feeling!”

Merlin pursed his lips. “Maybe it’s because your ‘Feeling’ usually gets us in more shite than out of it!”

Arthur guffawed, turning around in his seat as much as a traditional saddle would allow and shot an indignant look to his manservant. “Like when?”

“The homeless woman.”

“That was not my fault.”

“Ok, how about the banshee?”

“I don’t know what you're talking about.” Arthur said, even though he very much did (and cringed at the particularly moist memory).

“What about the angry Saxon? Or the wagon fire? Or that time with the gaggle of ducks that – if I recall – your Feeling said was _enchanted_?”

“They were _attacking_ me!”

“You had bread, you ignoramus!” Merlin retorted.

“That one doesn’t count.”

“Okay well what about the time with the speaking tree? Or – or remember the time with Gwaine and the flying monkeys?”

Arthur snorted, the memory amusing him only moderately. “Merlin?”

“Yes, sire?”

“ _Shut_ _up_.”

“Rightly so, my lord.”

Arthur nodded at the silence, and decided now would be a good time for a flashback. Or, more specifically, to reflect on the events of the last three days.

***

As it was, Arthur wasn’t really opposed to meeting strange hermits on the side of the road.

 

He did like to think he was a man of his people, after all, and well versed in conversing with his citizens. As it _was_ , though, Arthur was actually _very much_ opposed to meeting strange hermits on the side of the road who had nothing better to do with their time _than torment kings by repeatedly showing up in a manner that (no matter what Merlin said) suggested very much that they were following said Kings to torment them._

Because really, that job (i.e., the royal tormentor) was already being very much fulfilled by a certain Merlin, as well as a certain Gwaine, as well as a sorcerer, (thank you very much). (And by certain sorcerer, Arthur meant Emrys. Emrys was already tormenting him. As a matter of fact, Emrys had been tormenting him for quite a bit longer than anyone really had a _right_ to torment someone.)

 

The bastard.

 

Shaking his head, Arthur looked back to where Merlin was smiling genially at said hermit, nodding as though he actually understood the rubbish the man was spouting.

The first time the pair had run into the hermit, the man had been lying on the side of the road in a rather prone, twisted form. Arthur, being the gallant, heroic man of the peoples he was, had gone to save the fallen man only to find that he was, in fact, perfectly alright, and merely doing some strange form of body manipulation that he claimed to be 'relaxing' and dubbed 'yoga', though which Arthur believe to be 'absurd' and 'a painful display of masochistism'. The second time they had run into the man, the man had actually run into _them_ \- or more specifically a particularly _nude_ and _exposed_ Arthur in a particularly _comfortable_ river.

After that, Arthur had decided the hermit was following the pair. Merlin, on the other hand, had decided that Arthur was rather _shy_ for such a toned man, and was rather upset about having his bits all out and a-bouncing in front of a strange, (if not endearing), old man.

Arthur had decided in turn that when they got back to Camelot, he was going to buy his manservant's silence with a long, contemplative stay in the _dungeons_. (Because _really_ , the thought of Gwaine with that specific bit of information and speculation was absolutely _horrifying_.)

At the thought, Arthur snorted and turned back, refusing to acknowledge the annoying recluse (who they had run into for a _third time_ in as many days) nor the budding feeling in his stomach that was suspiciously similar to jealousy and currently growing as Merlin talked in depth to said hermit (who was, Arthur decided, _following_ them).

Though of course, kings certainly didn't get jealous of hermits, let alone crazy ones, let alone over the fact that Merlin was smiling at just _such_ a hermit in a manner that he hadn't done towards Arthur in the last sixty-seven hours, 49 minutes and 28 seconds.

 

Not that he was counting. (Make that 30 seconds.)

 

Of course he wasn't getting _jealous_. That would be absurd.

 

The king snorted for good measure, waiting impatiently for Merlin to finish whatever rubbish conversation he was having. His eyes wandered, finally landing on his horse.

 

It stared at him.

 

Arthur stared back.

 

The horse stared back.

 

Arthur frowned, widening his stance as he crossed his arms.

 

The horse blinked.

 

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What?”

 

The horse puffed out a breath of air.

 

“ _What_? oh bloody -! What did you expect me to do?”

 

The horse stood there, swaying from side to side a bit.

 

Arthur glared at it. “You can’t be serious. Now I’m getting the silence treatment from you _too_? Can this week get _any better_?”

 

The horse neighed in response, whipping its mane around a bit for good measure.

 

“Fine! Fine. I’ll apologize to him, my _god_. It’s not my fault that Merlin is a tasteless baffoon when it comes to poetry, though.”

 

The horse blinked again, it's total indifference becoming quite evident.

 

“Fine then. Bloody _be_ that way.” The king said, deciding that he was, in fact, a _king_ , and was, in fact, of a higher stature and than any bleeding _horse_ and therefore wasn't going to put up with this silent treatment _bullshi_ -

 

“Arthur, who are you talking to?”

 

The sound that Arthur made in supplement to jumping just shy of a foot in the air was something that, even to this day, would probably be questioned in its origin as being human. At later times, though, when questioned (by more specifically a very drunken _Gwaine_ ), Arthur would merely deny that humans, in fact, are even able to make such noises (let alone _Kings_ ) and therefore he would not have been able to do as such. (At this, Arthur would then nod his head in a very decided manner, crossing his arms, stumbling a bit as he regained his balance on the wholly stationary floor, and shooting Merlin a moderately drunken and wholly Murderous look.)

 

So, with as much kingly pride as he could muster, Arthur turned around and stuck his nose in the air in a manner disconcertingly liken to how Morgana used to. With a condescending tip of his head, the ruler answered, “Hmm?”

 

Merlin blinked at him for a moment, his brow furrowed in a moderately disconcerted manner. “I - um.”

 

The manservant’s eyes narrowed as he looked around his king, making eye contact with a particularly mellow-looking Destrier mare. Merlin squinted a bit more, as though looking for someone (that was not, in fact, the horse, and, in fact, able to participate in an evidently _heated_ conversation with a certain king). Finding no such entity, the warlock instead turned his (moderately concerned) attention back to the king in question. Putting balled hands on his bony hips, Merlin said, “Were you just having a row with the horse?”

 

Arthur snorted and nonchalantly avoided eye contact with his manservant in a manner which he thought was quite noble and airy. Merlin thought made him looked closer to constipated and distraught, but to each their own, he supposed. “Of course not, _Mer_ lin. Now do you have something important and pertinent to say or not?”

 

The grin that had appeared on the manservant’s face immediately dissolved at Arthur’s frankly rude tone. It turned to a scowl. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Good!” The manservant retorted, sticking his nose in the sky in turn (and mimicry) of Arthur.

 

“I just _said_ good, Merlin!”

 

“Yes, well I can say good too, can’t I? Or am I too much of an unwashed _peasant_ to do so?”

 

At this point Arthur contemplated three options.

 

Firstly: murder. Though effective in ending his frustrations, a small voice at the back of his head said that that would probably not end well, considering how he would probably be beaten to death with a washbin by a certain Guinevere upon her return from a certain honeymoon. (A moderately larger sized voice simultaneously drowned out the previous voice with the additional (and moderately brilliant) foresight that he - in fact - would probably also wholly regret his decisions of homicide as soon as he finished, considering that not three days ago he had been trying to woo said potential victim.) Arthur chose to ignore the latter voice, but take into consideration the real probability of mutilation that the former predicted.

 

Secondly: suicide. Really, the only complaint the king had at the moment was the fact that a.) there would be a very awkward scenario if he just so happened to survive, b.) Gwaine, c.) Gwaine uninhibited by royal law and d.) Gwaine becoming king through default due to the unbelievably unlikely mass nature-based death of approximately 47 nobility and the heir to the throne of Minarae (true, unlikely, but also still residing in the realm of probability).

 

The sheer image set Arthur’s blood pressure above the advisable levels. Scratch option two, then.

That left the last option: screaming from frustration while dramatically mimicking pulling out his hair. As it seemed to not only aptly express his inner turmoil but also simultaneously achieve some reasonable means (though admittedly Arthur couldn't really tell what said means _were_ ).

 

The king ended up opting for the third option.

 

***

 

After having an impromptu hissy fit that consisted of moderate to loud yelling, minor spasms of the arms and an unfortunate incident with his left gauntlet, Arthur was feeling much, much more relieved than usual. This probably had something to do with the way Merlin was now once again giving Arthur the attention he deserved, on top of having muttered an insulting form of apology for the way he had reacted to said king’s wooing attempts. Which, Arthur was the first to admit, was pretty bad. Not his wooing skills (I mean, after all, Arthur was a _prince_. He _knew_ things. _Did_ things. Maybe never actually _wooed_ anybody, but regardless, the abilities came with the title.) – rather, Merlin’s reaction to Arthur’s wooing. (Mentioned above.)

 

It went something along the lines of:

 

“ARTHUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

 

Arthur frowned at the memory, which had involved a well placed foot, a particularly odd incident with a falling tree branch, three and a half gloves and a late night dousing in the nearby stream.

An involuntary shiver ran down the king’s spine.

What was he talking about? Ah yes, the bleeding _hermit_.

But just as Arthur began to finally reach where his line of thought was attempting to reflect on for the whole chapter, there was a suspicious rustling noise in the bushes. The king frowned, wondering if he should even move to investigate such a suspicious noise considering what he found the _last_ time he pursued a noise in the woods. Woefully enough, the image of she-Gwaine quickly flashed in and out of Arthur's mind, momentarily incapacitating him.

And really, it was in that moment whence Arthur was wholly stuck in place due to a certain knight's escapades that the bandits considered a prime time to attack.

 

**To be continued…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. So college has made it hard for me to update (sorry guys!), plus I've been working on another fic that has been in the works for a couple months now, sooo... yeah. That Arthur tho. Gotta love it when his highness had a row with a horse. :0
> 
> Anywho, I hope you guys are still enjoying this, though, and absolutely love all the support I've been getting! You guys are unreal, and totally collectively the bomb dot com.
> 
> Until next time!


	11. Oops, Emrys Did It Again: Pt II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things:   
> Firstly, I love you all so much. Thank you for the continued support and reading - it means the world to me~!   
> Secondly, I am (unofficially) doing nanowrimo this month... so updates! Yay!  
> And lastly... I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. (or hellfire. Whatever. Same dif.) Yes, this story is finally wrapping itself up! There are probably only going to be two or three more chapters after this one!

**And now we continue…**

 

As he wriggled his wrists against their rope bindings, Merlin decided that ever since he tried that damn protective spell on Arthur, his luck had actually taken a rather dramatic, if not wholly concerning and stomach-wrenching, _nose-dive_ into the pits of _hell_.

Arthur, on the other hand, seemed to be rather pleased with the situation. At least, if that smug look on his face, which reached Merlin even in the dying light of their captor’s campfire, was anything to go by. Arthur, as if sensing Merlin was thinking about him, looked up just in time to send his manservant a dopey – if not charming – grin, and nod his head a bit.

Gods, he was in love with an absolute _idiot_.

Rolling his eyes, Merlin flexed his fingers, which were actually managing to do exactly what you’d expect fingers that had been _cut off from circulation for the better half of an evening_ to be doing: aka going bloody _numb_.

The warlock huffed, reluctantly reflecting on the events (aka, Arthur’s Stupidity) that had brought the pair into this situation.

Or, more specifically, Arthur charging stupidly into a hoard of bandits, shouting something along the lines of ‘Never fear, Merlin! I shall save us!’ then promptly tripping on a root, missing a swing to the jugular from a particularly mud-caked bloke about the size of Percival and twice as wide, knocking both himself and said bloke out in the process, getting captured and thenceforth forcing Merlin to surrender.

Of course.

Merlin was really just going to kill that man someday, save them both the stress. 

Arthur, still smiling, kicked Merlin’s shin in a manner that was probably meant to be covert and attention grabbing, but turned out to be really _hard_ and _painful,_ making the manservant yelp and glare daggers at his King.

Arthur ignored Merlin’s death glare, instead choosing to continue talking.

“Don’t fear, Merlin. I will get us out of this!” Signature smile.

If he could’ve, Merlin probably would’ve hit his head against a wall right then. Preferably repeatedly. Until the sweet, sweet embrace of unconsciousness took him. As it was though, the bandit leader – an ugly bloke by the name of Argot – along with some of his lovely (if not smelly, rude, and uncultured) companions chose that moment to walk up to the captured pair.

“So, King of Camelot, eh?” The leader said, leering at Arthur. Arthur pursed his lips, his own humor quickly dissipating.

“And if I am?”

“Well, _sire_ , you would catch quite the pretty penny, now wouldn’t you?” Some of the goons around Argot began to snicker at this, even though both Arthur and Merlin really _did_ doubt how funny the previous statement was. Sure, they’re talking about probably getting at least a decent payday, but really, money didn’t always equate _humor_ –

Arthur kept his face carefully blank. “I suppose I would.”

“Or we could jus’ kill ‘im and eat ‘im!” One of the goons shouted from the back of the pack.

“I – ugh, Jarg, what the fuck? Not again. Why don’t you shut up for once! I’m trying to talk here!” Argot said, whirling around to glare at a particularly knobby man.

“Sor’y sir.” He said, cowed.

Argot’s grimaced. “Ugh. Whatever. You’ve got first watch now, you sick fuck. Now where were we?” The leader turned back to Arthur, who was admittedly a bit confused, and a bit distraught. Though of course, he would never let that show.

Instead, the pair settled back, preparing themselves for the undoubtedly long and spectacular speech that Argot had assuredly been outlining in his head for the last three hours.

They were not disappointed.

 

***

 

It was late, very late, when something woke Merlin from his sleep. Specifically, said something was Jarg, leering over Arthur with what appeared to be cutlery and a roaring appetite.

Oh, bother.

The manservant rolled his eyes at his luck, then decidedly _kicked_ the knobby man in the shin, causing him to lose balance and topple onto his intended prey (Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, Property of Emrys).

This just so happened to awaken said Arthur, who gave an almighty squeal at the man who was, of current, biting into his shoulder in a pretty pathetic attempt at cannibalism, all things considered. (After all, being the proud owner of only seven teeth left Jarg at a bit of a disadvantage when it came to biting through _chainmail_.)

“URrgHh what the FUCK?”

And really, that was what woke the whole camp up.

After that, everything descended into chaos – and Merlin decided it was high time the pair got the hell out of there. 

So, with burning eyes, the manservant promptly and with a moderate amount of satisfaction destroyed a whole bandit camp.

 

***

 

It was only after the last bandit was flung to gods-know-where (that one had broken the tree line, after all) that Merlin looked up to see one Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, standing about three meters away from him.

Very much awake.

And looking at him.

Merlin.

Who had just been doing magic.

 _Oh, bugger_. Merlin’s face contorted into something liken to a line drawn by Gwaine after thirteen hours in the tavern.

“Erm.” He said helpfully.

“Are you bloody well telling me you could’ve done that all this time?” Arthur said incredulously, his hips canted at an angle that was terrifyingly reminiscent of Morgana’s ‘oh, friendly banter? More like _verbal_ _murder’_ stance.

Merlin’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, then – in a valiant attempt to form words to smoothly explain away the situation (or maybe just soften the blow of the situation – after all, it had been a long day, and what Merlin just did _was_ a bit hard to _smoothly_ explain away) – flapped aimlessly about.

Arthur stared at Merlin, expectantly, and a bit irritated. Merlin took this as an important opportunity, because after all, he should get his side of the argument in before Arthur became wholly _pissed off_ and _unreasonable_ in the inevitable fit of rage that would probably be beginning in t-minus 30 seconds.

 So, the warlock took a deep breath, and blurted out “Magic.”

Um. Maybe his mind to mouth connection wasn’t wholly there, still.

Arthur quirked an eyebrow at this, his hands still on his hips. He really did have a Morgana swagger around him, Merlin thought idly as he slowly saw his future flush down a hypothetical self-disposing chamber pot (an invention of Gaius’ that, though brilliant, could only work with the help of magic. Pity).

“Yes, magic.” Arthur said – a strange, unreadable look on his face. And it was this look that wrenched Merlin back to reality and the heat of the moment _and oh yes Arthur had just bloody well seen him do magic -!_

Merlin was beginning to really relate to that constant, distressed look that George always seemed to be wearing nowadays.

“Um. Arthur. Um. I. Er.” Merlin said, his point coming across intelligently, if not a bit choppy. Arthur’s second brow rose to accompany the first one at the very top of his forehead. The king made a bit of a ‘go on, then’ motion with his hand.

“Er, I don’t have magic?” The manservant tried, choking on what was probably supposed to be a nervous chuckle. It just came across as choking, though.

Arthur’s encouraging face quickly turned into a put-upon glare. Ok, so that didn’t work, but _still_ – worth a go.

“I – er, I mean, _okayihavemagic_! But Arthur, please, please believe me, I never used it for anything or anyone but _you_ -! Sire, I –“ Merlin began to choke up, tears threatening to flow from his eyes.

Arthur, in the meantime, hadn’t changed his position. Merlin’s eyes searched his king’s unreadable expression for any sign of that rage, that hatred, that contempt that would undoubtedly be there, but instead there was only –

“I – but – _you bloody bastard_! Are you _laughing_?!” Merlin screeched, disbelief making his face going frankly humorously slack.

Arthur was very much failing at keeping a straight face. “Of course not, _Mer_ lin. This is very serious.” But even as the king spoke, it was laced with humor. He pursed his lips in an unconvincing attempt at not smiling.

Oh, the bloody bastard _was_ laughing.

“Oh, I’ll bloody well show _you_ something serious _, Arthur Pendragon_!” Merlin yelled, swearing like a sailor as he began to stomp towards his _now-absolutely-dead_ lover.

Arthur snorted, rolling his eyes. “ _Mer_ lin, I really don’t see why you're being so emotional. I mean, after all, it’s not like your magic was a big secret or anything.”

“I – bu – pf – _nnngh_ -!” Merlin sputtered, his face turning an odd hint of violet. “You mean you _knew_?!” The manservant finally got out, electricity sparking dangerously through the air.

Not that Arthur noticed it. And even if he did, the king probably wouldn’t have taken it as a sign to _stop poking the metaphorical bear (also known as the very much_ non _-metaphorical sorcerer who, mind you, has the capacity to turn you into a newt)._

“Of course I _knew_ , _Mer_ lin. What, do you think I’m really that daft?” The royal snorted again, rolling his eyes. “Why else do you think I kept letting you sneak around at night?” At that, Arthur began to chuckle in a very companionable manner that had steam inadvertently coming off the top of Merlin's head.

The noise that proceeded to come out of the young warlock was not wholly human sounding, and quite frankly _concerning_ in nature.

And then, just like that, the king’s personal manservant was gone in a puff of smoke.

 

***

 

Figuring that Merlin had probably gone back to the palace to mope about, Arthur saddled up a stray bandit’s horse and began the long ride back.

When the king arrived at Camelot, it was already past dusk. The torches lining the outer walls of the citadel illuminated the scenery enough for Arthur to dismount his horse, handing the reins to a stable hand.

The torches were also bright enough to illuminate a figure making its way towards Arthur at a surprisingly fast and agile (if not zigzagging) speed. As said figure drew closer, Arthur got the distinct impression that said figure was actually a certain Sir _Gwaine_. When said figure stopped in front of Arthur just long enough to send a fist flying right towards (and inevitably connecting _with_ ) said king’s nose, he became very much certain that it was, in fact, his _beloved_ Sir Gwaine who had been running towards him and now was currently punching his majesty in the face.

What the fuck.

Arthur said as much, gripping at his nose to see if it was alright and oh, I don’t know _still attached to his bloody face_.

“You know why!” Gwaine all but sobbed, and Arthur had the distinct realization that Gwaine was damn well _sloshed_.

“I do? I’m pretty sure I don’t.” Arthur replied, still a bit dazed as he rubbed at his poor, abused nose.

“You just go ahead and find out about his magic and don’t even _consider_ what he's done for you!” The knight was sobbing outright now, his eyes red from drink and emotion. “And you just throw him in the dungeons like that! I bloody well can’t _believe_ it! You know what, Arthur Pendragon?” Gwaine said, straightening up and attempting to compose himself. “I resign!”

 _Well, thank the gods for small mercies._ Arthur thought, sighing a bit –

 _Wait a minute._ “Dungeons?” Arthur said, frowning at Gwaine’s now-prone figure. And when had the ex-knight lain down? Eh?

“Yes! The dungeons!” Gwaine bemoaned towards nothing in particular as he looked up at the sky from where he was laying on the ground. “Poor Merlin! He won’t last a night!” 

At this proclamation, Arthur frowned. After all he hadn’t, in fact, sent Merlin to the dungeons for his magic. That at least the royal was certain of. Sure, he got a bit of a laugh from it all, but that was to be expected. Hell, his manservant had _lied_ to him enough that Arthur deserved a good laugh (after all, nothing heals like the soothing balm of laughter. Did he just really think that? _Where in the hell did that come from?_ Arthur frowned, feeling a slight shiver of disgust at the way his brain was most definitely _not_ working in his favor to fix the situation right now, because _someone_ had thrown Merlin in the dungeons, and really it wasn’t like Merlin had thrown _himself_ -).

And then realization dawned on the royal, and oh – that bloody _wanker_.

“MERLIN!”

 

***

 

When Arthur stormed down to the dungeons, it was to find Merlin exactly where he thought he would be – the third cell on the left, or otherwise known as ‘ _the one Arthur put Merlin in when he was really mad, because it didn’t have a window, and therefore no decent view or ventilation’_. It was much more _dungeony_ than cells one or two on the left, and all the ones on the right (which quite frankly had envy-worthy views of the courtyard).

As of current, his manservant was resolutely perched on the edge of his cot, arms crossed, nose in the air, ignoring a frantic Gaius who was currently pleading with him through the bars.

Ah yes. The _locked_ bars. Because of _course_ Merlin had locked himself inside. Magically. Because he obviously didn’t have any _better_ uses for his powers _._

_Oh, bugger._

When Gaius looked up and saw Arthur approaching, his face tightening. It was only when he was nearly upon the old man that the King realized there was a suspicious lack of guards down here.

Or –

The king glanced down the hall. Oh yes. _There_ they were, all smashed into that cell near the beginnings of the catacombs. Of _course_.

“Come on, Merlin. You’re being completely absurd.” Arthur said as he pressed his fingers into his eyes in a manner that suggested he would currently prefer _death_ to dealing with his irrational manservant. Speak of a lover scorn, _jeeheeez_.

Merlin didn’t even look at Arthur, instead resolutely glaring a hole in the wall as he said: “Gaius, would you be so kind as to inform His Majesty that I do not enjoy the _ad hominem_ attacks he’s employing in an attempt to argue his point.”

Gaius turned to Arthur, frowning, and opened his mouth to speak.

“Oh my gods. Gaius, don’t encourage him.” Arthur snapped. Gaius wisely closed his mouth. Then with the patience of a man who spent most of his life listening to stuffy council men arguing over wheat and grazing rights, the King turned to his manservant. His words were carefully neutral, as though he were talking to the village idiot. (More like the _kingdom_ idiot. Pff.) “Merlin, why in the _hell_ have you locked yourself in the dungeons?”

“Gaius, would you please tell His Majesty that –“

“Oh bloody hell, Merlin! Just talk to me!” Arthur burst out, using all his self restraint to not start tearing at his hair.

After all, it would just be kinda weird to have a patchy-haired king. Really weird, actually. He’d probably look diseased or –

“Gaius –“ Merlin began again, still glaring at the wall as though it had personally offended him. Considering all the time Merlin had spent down here in the past, Arthur actually wouldn't have been surprised if it had.

Arthur made an estranged noise of defeat. “Shut _up_ , already! Y’know what? Fine. Stay down here, then.  See if I care!”

And with that, Arthur swept out of the dungeons – totally forgetting to let the guards out in the process.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhahahha God I had way too much fun with this chapter. Ugh. Also I'm thinking about posting a playlist for this story. Would anyone be interested?
> 
> Well, thanks again for reading and the support!
> 
> Cheers!


	12. Who the Hell is Emrys?! (Or the Chapter Where Arthur Does Logic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this wonderful rollercoaster of a fanfic comes to a close! Only one more chapter after this!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for all the support I've received while writing this - you're all the bomb! 
> 
> Cheers!

 

Arthur cared.

The king would never admit it, but he really was rather prone to caring not only _moderately_ , or even moderately _excessively_ , but very much _excessively_ and _almost_ _wholeheartedly_ when it came to his manservant.

When Gaius came up to the throne room half an hour later, it was to inform Arthur that Merlin was ‘rather upset’ (an understatement), and feeling ‘quite a bit pissed about not being informed as the Arthur’s knowledge in regards to his magic’ and was going to ‘bleeding rot down there until he got a proper reaction from His Majesty’ and that Arthur should probably shove certain _things_ in certain _places_ that alone and without lubrication sounded rather unsatisfactory to Arthur (though of course if said objects were put in certain places and used in just the right way with Merlin there then the king could probably be brought to reconsider said suggestions).

As it was, though, Arthur was probably _not_ going to be taking any of Merlin’s thoughtful if not moderately _rude_  yet colorful suggestions anytime soon.

Probably.

As it was, he was a busy king, and had many things to do. So therefore, with only a moderately excessive sigh, Arthur slouched back into his throne in a way that only a regal man learned in the arts of slouching back into thrones regally could.

It had quite the impressive effect, if the way the guards stared back at him with blank, if not moderately _dead_ , expressions was anything to go by.

Arthur hid a satisfied smile in the palm of his hands, much to the guards’ indifference.

It was just then, as Arthur was beginning to slip into a rather satisfying daydream about a certain plump, voluptuous bottom that the thick, oak doors of the throne room were thrown open in a rather grandiose display of sorcery.

Or, well, said sorcerer decided it was a rather impressive display of sorcery. If _Arthur_ were to be asked, he would say it was only moderately _mediocre_ – after all, only _one_ door was blown off its hinge, leaving the other to swing forward, hit the wall, swing back and, if not for a beautiful (if not surprisingly nimble) display of acrobatics on said sorcerer’s part, would’ve slammed right back into said sorcerer.

Again, mediocre. Arthur withheld a snort, not even bothering to grab for his sword.

 _Always with the damn doors_. The sorcerer was speaking now, having thrown the guards to the ceilings in a manner that, surprisingly enough, only elicited a couple of frowns from the men. Really, they were getting rather used to it. Though of course, so was the king.

Arthur sighed in resignation, shoving all thoughts of Merlin to the back of his mind. Wearily, he addressed the newest sorcerer, cutting him off mind rant, “Can I help you? I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

The sorcerer paused, gaping a bit. “I – er – what?”

Arthur gave another sigh, augmenting it was a slight eye roll because he _could_ , and forlornly repeated himself. “I _said_ , can I _help_ you? _You_ might have time to run around mutilating perfectly good doors and all, but I’m a king, and I’m a bit _busy_ at the moment.”

The sorcerer clamped his mouth shut with an audible clack that made Arthur really wonder about exactly how _safe_ it was to go about clamping one’s mouth shut with such force (talk about repressed rage). Then said sorcerer frowned, opened his mouth, closed his mouth, then opened it again. Then closed it.

Arthur made an encouraging motion for him to carry on and bloody well _get on with it_.

Finally, “You don’t look _like_ you're very busy.” The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed triumphantly, because now that Arthur thought about it, him just lounging about on his throne without even a book was a bit not-busy-ish _. Damn sorcerer_.

It was Arthur’s turn to frown a bit, though, floundering about in a rather regal version of said sorcerer’s floundering. Because really this old man sounded _familiar_ , and bloody well if he didn’t recognize that voice….

 _“You!”_ The king suddenly exclaimed, then glowered in a rather pouty manner, _“Why you’re that bloody hermit!”_

The sorcerer frowned at this, muttering ‘hermit..?’ for a moment before sighing, because really – _royalty_.

“Yes. ‘Tis I, the mighty Damica!” And that was when Arthur had to squint, because oh yes, that hermit was actually a _hermitress_. “ – here about your _predicament_.”

“Eh? Wait what? You’re not here to kill me?” Arthur couldn’t help but keep the disappointment from his voice, earning him a strange look from one of the guards still stuck to the ceiling. But really, who could _actually_ blame the royal? Considering how livid Merlin was right now, the king had been kind of looking forward to a quick, painless death at the hands of someone very much _not_ Merlin. Someone like a sorceress. Who would give him a quick, _painless_ death. Preferably _without pain._  

 _Pity_.

“No! I’ve heard you’ve been having a bit of a… misunderstanding.”

Arthur snorted at this, “Between me and Merlin? It’s nothing. Trivial.”

The sorceress frowned, “Then I assume you were _not_ actually seeking out a means to remove Emrys’ soul bond?”

Arthur sputtered in a manner that Merlin would only ever be brave enough to acknowledge. After all, anyone else who mentioned Arthur doing such an un-kingly thing would obtain a one way ticket to _certain death_.

When Arthur regained his bearings, he quickly looked around to see if anyone had seen him. Thankfully, all the guards plastered upon the ceiling were conveniently looking everywhere save for the throne.

The sorceress, on the other hand, was staring at Arthur, expectantly. Well that was just rude. Let a king have a moment, jeez.

“Though it’s none of your business, hermitress, my manservant and I were indeed on a quest to… disengage myself from Emrys.” Said king replied in a rather salty manner. 

“Disengage.” The sorceress repeated, dryly.

“Yes, disengage! Now what do you _want_ from me, sorceress?!”

“Well I was going to offer my services on that front, but since you’ve been so _rude_ …”

“You bloody well broke a perfectly good door! Who’s being rude _now_?” Arthur whined petulantly. After all, that was the _fifth_ door in the last _three_ months, and though there’d never been a fund specifically for the _throne room doors_ before Arthur’s rule, the royal steward was currently setting one up. “Also, my guards are plastered to the ceiling still! How do you think that makes _them_ feel? Not welcome, that’s for sure!”

The sorceress sighed. “Yes, I guess you’re right.”

The guards dropped with a moderately satisfying series of _plops_ and groans.

Arthur was beginning to wish he had one of Gaius’ ineffective sand sacks to _demolish_. The king shivered a bit. This sorceress was almost as bad as _Merlin_.

“I, Damica, do come to offer King Arthur and the warlock Emrys my services in removing their soul bond.”

Well now that was probably the best news Arthur had heard all week. Finally. The king started nodding because yes, that would be absolutely smashing – but then the sorceress was still speaking, and what she was saying was a question and she was looking at Arthur and the king was now tuning back into what she was saying and very much no longer nodding and really this was probably the worst news he'd heard all week because -

“ – though it appears as though Emrys is no longer in your service…?”

“Wait what?”

“It appears as though Emrys –“

“I heard you! No – wait, what do you mean Emrys is no longer _in my service_?” Arthur’s voice was suddenly low and even. A couple of the guards who had been trying to get up saw the look on their king’s face and decided it was probably better to just go ahead and  _play dead_ for a spell.

The hermitress paused, looking at Arthur for a moment, then let out a small ‘ah’.

“Ah?” Arthur repeated, his voice still even, eyebrows drawing up his forehead in a rather terrifying, ominous manner.

“Ah. Yes. Emrys has not revealed himself to you yet.”

The king really did wish it was more acceptable for him to run himself through sometimes. Instead, he shoved his fingers into his eyes. Nowhere. He was getting _nowhere_.

“Unbelievably astute of you, sorceress. I applaud your abilities. Now that we have that out of the way, why don’t you tell me _who the hell is Emrys_.”

“Who is who?” The sorceress asked, looking innocently at Arthur. Well, trying to look innocent. The smirk and warts didn’t really help her case. But to each their own, Arthur supposed. Wait no, actually, not to each their own. He wanted to bloody well know who Emrys was!

“Don’t – don’t be like that!” The king exclaimed, frustrated.

“Be like what, sire?” The hermitress blinked her eyes in a disconcerting manner. Maybe she had a piece of dusk, or eyelash –

“No! Just – tell me who Emrys is!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Running himself through would be a valiant death, right? In the face of certain defeat and all, correct? No, no. Not with Gwaine still alive. Arthur couldn’t die until after a certain knight was out of running for the throne. Of course, _murder_ –

“I swear to all that is holy, if you do not obey your king immediately I will have you in the dungeons faster than – than fast!” Arthur sputtered. Okay, maybe not his best threat.

The sorceress snorted. “Alright, sire. No need for a fit. Emrys is… the one who released the dragon.”

Oh, well that was just great. Of course he was. Arthur was going to rip the bloody wanker apart as soon as he got his hands on him.

"Of course. Now that's solved, I would rather _love_ to know who the _hell_ he is."

The sorceress paused, scratching absentmindedly at the tuff of hair on her elbow. "Emrys is the one who has lived in Camelot's shadow -"

"Yes, yes - I know that! You said he was employed by me.” Arthur interrupted, impatient. 

“Mmmm.” Damica seemed intensely interested in her chipped, dirty nails all of a sudden. Arthur, in the meantime, mentally bemoaned his birth.

“And…?”

“And... I believe Emrys will reveal himself to you when the time is right.”

The noise that Arthur made next wasn’t wholly human, and the guards who had played dead were pleasantly pleased with their foresight.

 

***

 

It probably had something to do with the way that Damica bowed to Merlin as she was led to her own cell that set Arthur onto that particular line of thought. Also, the way she breathed, reverently ‘my savior’ as she passed.

Whatever the cause, Arthur was thinking now, dining by himself in his room. George had (very hesitantly) served the king his dinner in a manner that implied he, too, wished a valiant death at the moment. 

It had been a long day and Merlin was still stubbornly locked in his cell and Damica wasn’t saying squat diddly about Emrys and really, what type of stupid sorcerer would serve _Camelot_ –

And then, in the calm before the storm, Arthur very carefully set down his glass of wine, taking care to fold his napkin as he placed it to the side.

The clarity of it all was unbelievably surreal because there was only one idiotic sorcerer who would not only be so stupid as to _work_ for _Camelot_ , but also probably bloody well feel _pity_ for the _fire-breathing dragon_ beneath the castle and just bloody well let it go – and probably was also stupid enough to slip into the bed of the King, and now that Arthur was thinking about it, said bloody idiot also probably cast a soul bond on accident because he was bloody well accident prone but it was okay _because Arthur was going to go strangle the little bastard_   _right bloody now why that little shit -!_

And then the pieces fell into place and Arthur was wrenching his chamber door open with force enough to put a dent in the royal steward’s most recent door fund, shouting at the top of his lungs, “ _MEEERLIN_!”

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this chapter was short and anticlimatical but... I don't know this is just how everything fell together, if that makes sense. Anyway. Even though this story is coming to a close, I'm probably going to continue with some short stories in this realm - I already have some ideas and a fanmix put together lmao.
> 
> Anyway! I hope you all have enjoyed this fanfiction as much as I have!
> 
> Until next time!


	13. Epilogue (We Think)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so here is the last chapter of WTHIE! What a glorious day it is to be alive!

 

As it was, Guinevere and Lancelot had, after a rather grandiose marriage (curtsey of the Pendragon door fund), gone away to a small cottage in the hills for their week long honeymoon. It had been sickeningly charming, in a manner that probably would’ve left any onlookers with a severe case of diabetes and tooth decay.

(Thankfully, no onlookers were present, and therefore no onlookers were harmed in the process of the Du Lac honeymoon. Though of course, even if there had been onlookers harmed in the process, then they really were just getting what they deserved, because peeping on a pair of innocent honeymooners is not only strange and uncomfortable, but downright _rude_ and _should_ result in diabetes. Asshole.)

On the ride back to Camelot, the pair had mused a bit about how the kingdom would fair in their absence – what, with both Arthur and Merlin running loose without their usual impulse controls in place (aka a certain noble knight and soothsaying serving girl). If anything, they had been left with the human version of an _accelerant_ : Sir Gwaine.

As it was, the newlyweds were able to give a sigh of relief when, once within the citadels, nothing appeared to be burning, falling apart, flooded, hit by freak lightening, crumbling, destroyed in a mudslide, _dead_ or otherwise mutilated in some strange, probably Merlin-related manner. (Except, of course, for the door. But that was to be expected.)

Overall, the state of Camelot was secure.

The pair shared a look of relief and equal ‘ _sigh’s_ of contentment just as a blur of a body went shooting past them. The pair then promptly shared a look of equal confusion and growing _fear_ , because that blur of a body did seem to appear to look very similar to a certain _manservant_ they both just so happened to know…

And then yes, that was very much probably Merlin, if a certain purple-faced king running full tilt shouting ‘MERLIN YOU LITTLE SHIT I SWEAR TO ALL THE GODS OF THE LAND THAT WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU I’M GOING TO FUC-‘ was anything to go by.

But then the pair just started chuckling, shaking their heads, because really – nothing had changed.

Yes, Camelot was just fine.

 

***

 

As it just so happened to be, the events that transpired the evening of Emrys’ reveal ended with a very interesting situation involving a get-away dragon, an impressive running jump on the king of Camelot’s part, the invention of the art of cheerleading by one mostly disrobed, drunken and disorderly Sir Gwaine, three pine cones and a soaked, kilt-clad Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot and _husband_ of Emrys (according to said alcohol-influenced druid ritual said pair just so happened to have drunkenly partaken in) banning even a whisper of _said_ transpired events the next morning.

Except for, of course, his marriage to a certain manservant. Arthur kept that whole shebang with the excuse that a union between the magical realm and Camelot was generally a smiled upon idea.

Everyone knew the real reason, though. (Most especially George, who had learned very fast to _stop_ , _knock_ and _listen_ before entering a room… specifically the royal chambers. He considered it a developing survival mechanism. Merlin considered it _funny_.)

And so the kingdom prospered, Arthur never got stabbed with a you know what by you know who because that’s just fucking cruel I mean c’mon, Gwaine made sure the taverns of Camelot never closed for want of business, Merlin used his newfound power as court sorcerer and royal consort to ban all chicken suits (much to Arthur’s poutiness and Gwaine’s displeasure) and Gaius kept everyone in line with his particularly devastating eyebrows.

All was good, and Albion prospered. (As did a certain infamous pair’s sex life. But I digress.)

 

The End

_…or is it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone who has read this fic, I could never have finished this without all your continuous support! I hope this has made someone smile today - you all deserve to have a laugh every now and again!
> 
> Love and laughter and all that shitty sentiment,
> 
> Amelia


End file.
